. 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    32E    73fl 


EGBERT    GRAHAM. 

A 

Sequel  to,  anir  toniinuaiira  of  ".fink." 

BY 

MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ. 

AUTHOR  OF  "ERNEST  LINTVOOD,"  "COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE,"  "PLANTER'S 
NORTHERN  BRIDE,"  "LINDA,"  "EOLINE,"  "  RENA,"  ETC. 

Complete  in  one  large  volume,  bound  in  cloth,  price  One  Dollar  and  Twenty- 
Jive  cents,  or  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  for  One  Dollar. 

READ  WHAT  SOME  OF  THE  LEADING  EDITORS  SAY  OF  IT: 

"The  thousands  who  read  'Linda,  or,  the  Young  Pilot  of  the  Bello 
Creole,'  will  make  haste  to  procure  a  copy  of  this  book,  which  is  a  sequel 
to  that  history.  Like  all  of  this  writer's  works,  it  is  natural  and  graphic, 
and  very  entertaining." — City  Item. 

"A  charming  novel;  and  in  point  of  plot,  style,  and  all  the  other  char 
acteristics  of  a  readable  romance,  it  will  compare  favorably  with  almost 
any  of  the  many  publications  of  the  season." — Literary  Gazette. 

"We  cannot  admire  too  much,  nor  thank  Mrs.  Hentz  too  sincerely  for 
the  high  and  ennobling  morality  and  Christian  grace,  which  not  only  per 
vade  her  entire  writings,  but  which  shine  forth  with  undimmed  beauty  in 
the  new  novel,  Robert  Graham.  It  sustains  the  character  which  is  very 
difficult  to  well  delineate  in  a  work  of  fiction — a  religious  missionary.  All 
who  read  the  work  will  bear  testimony  to  the  entire  success  of  Mrs.  Hentz." 
— Boston  Transcript. 

MRS,  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ'S  OTHER  WORKS. 

T.  B.  Peterson  having  purchased  the  stereotype  plates  of  all  the  writings 
of  Mrs.  Hentz,  he  has  just  published  a  new,  uniform  and  beautiful  edi 
tion  of  all  her  works,  printed  on  a  much  finer  and  better  paper,  and  in  far 
superior  and  better  style  to  what  they  have  ever  before  been  issued  in,  (all 
in  uniform  style  with  Robert  Graham,)  copies  of  any  one  or  all  of  which 
will  be  sent  to  any  place  in  the  United  States,  free  of  postage,  on  receipt  of 
remittances.  Each  book  contains  a  beautiful  illustration  of  one  of  the  best 
scenes.  The  following  are  the  names  of  these  world-wide  celebrated  works 

LINDA ;  or,  THE  YOTJNG  PILOT  OF  THE  BELLE 
CREOLE.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price 
One  Dol.,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"We  hnil  with  pleasure  this  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  South. 
Works  containing  faithful  delineations  of  Southern  life,  society,  and 

(i) 


ii  MRS.   HENTZ'S  WORKS. 

scenery,  whether  in  the  gnrb  of  romance  or  in  the  soberer  attire  of  simple 
narrative,  cannot  fail  to  have  a  salutary  influence  in  correcting  the  false 
impressions  which  prevail  in  regard  to  our  people  and  institutions  ;  and 
our  thanks  are  due  to  Mrs.  Hentz  for  the  addition  she  has  made  to  this  de 
partment  of  our  native  literature.  We  cannot  close  without  expressing  a 
hope  that  'Linda'  may  be  followed  by  many  other  works  of  the  same  clasa 
from  the  pen  of  its  gifted  author." — Southern  Literary  Gazette. 

"Mrs.  Hentz  has  given  us  here  a  very  delightful  romance,  illustrative  of 
life  in  the  South-west,  on  a  Mississippi  plantation.  There  is  a  well-wrought 
love-plot;  the  characters  arc  well  drawn  ;  the  incidents  are  striking  and 
novel;  the  denouement  happy,  and  moral  excellent.  Mrs.  Hentz  may 
twine  new  laurels  above  her  'Mob  Cap.'" — Evening  Bulletin. 

"Remarkable  for  the  deep  interest  of  the  plot  and  touching  beauty  of  its 
well-told  incidents;  some  of  our  newspaper  editors,  indeed,  pronounce  it 
'the  lest  story  ever  published.'  This  is  certainly  high  praise,  and  from  our 
knowledge  of  Mrs.  Lee  Hentz's  ability,  as  an  accomplished  writer,  we  have 
no  doubt  the  praise  is  well  merited." — American  Courier. 

COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  or,  THE  JOYS 
AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  With  a 
Portrait  of  the  Author.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes, 
paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"This  work  will  be  found,  on  perusalby  all,  to  beone  of  the  most  exciting, 
interesting,  and  popular  works  that  has  ever  emanated  from  the  American 
Press.  It  is  written  in  a  charming  style,  and  will  elicit  through  all  a 
thrill  of  deep  and  exquisite  pleasure.  It  is  a  work  which  the  oldest  and 
the  youngest  may  alike  read  with  profit.  It  abounds  with  the  most  beauti 
ful  scenic  descriptions ;  and  displays  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  all 
phases  of  human  character;  all  the  characters  being  exceedingly  well 
drawn.  It  is  a  delightful  book,  full  of  incidents,  oftentimes  bold  and 
startling,  and  describes  the  warm  feelings  of  the  Southerner  in  glowing 
colors.  Indeed,  all  Mrs.  Hentz's  stories  aptly  describe  Southern  life,  and 
are  highly  moral  in  their  application.  In  this  field  Mrs.  Hentz  wields  a 
keen  sickle,  and  harvests  a  rich  and  abundant  crop.  It  will  be  found  in 
plot,  incident,  and  management,  to  be  a  superior  work.  In  the  whole 
range  of  elegant  moral  fiction,  there  cannot  be  found  any  thing  of  more 
inestimable  value,  or  superior  to  this  work,  and  it  is  a  gem  that  will  well 
repay  a  careful  perusal.  The  Publisher  feels  assured  that  it  will  give 
entire  satisfaction  to  all  readers,  encourage  good  taste  and  good  morals, 
and  while  away  many  leisure  hours  with  great  pleasure  and  profit,  and  be 
recommended  to  others  by  all  that  peruse  it." 

THE  PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE.  With  illus 
trations.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover, 
600  pages,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth  gilt,  $1._25. 

"It  is  unquestionably  the  most  powerful  and  important,  if  not  the  most 
charming  work  that  has  yet  flowed  from  her  elegant  pen  ;  and  though  evi- 


Ill 

dently  founded  upon  the  all-absorbing  subjects  of  slavery  and  abolitionism, 
the  genius  and  skill  of  the  fair  author  have  developed  new  views  of  golden 
argument,  and  flung  around  the  whole  such  a  halo  of  pathos,  interest,  and 
beauty,  as  to  render  it  every  way  worthy  the  author  of  'Linda/  'Marcus 
Warland,'  'Rena/  and  the  numerous  other  literary  gems  from  the  same 
author." — American  Courier. 

"We  have  seldom  been  more  charmed  by  the  perusal  of  a  novel;  and  we 
desire  to  commend  it  to  our  readers  in  the  strongest  words  of  praise  that 
our  vocabulary  affords.  The  incidents  are  well  varied;  the  scenes  beauti 
fully  described;  and  the  interest  admirably  kept  up.  But  the  moral  of  the 
book  is  its  highest  merit.  The  'Planters  Northern  Bride'  should  be  as 
welcome  as  the  dove  of  peace  to  every  fireside  in  the  Union.  It  cannot  be 
read  without  a  moistening  of  the  eyes,  a  softening  of  the  heart,  and  a  miti 
gation  of  sectional  and  most  unchristian  prejudices." — N.  Y.  Mirror. 

"Themostdelightful  and  remarkable  book  of  the  day." — Boston  Traveler. 

"The  characters  are  finely  drawn,  and  well  sustained,  from  the  begin 
ning  to  the  end  of  the  work." — Boston  Morning  Post. 

"Written  with  remarkable  vigor,  and  contains  many  passages  of  real 
eloquence.  We  heartily  commend  it  to  general  perusal." — Newark  Eagle. 

RENA  ;  or,  THE  SNOW  BIRD.  A  Tale  of  Real  Life. 
Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dol.,  or 
bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"The  'Snow  Bird'  elicits  a  thrill  of  deep  and  exquisite  pleasure,  even 
exceeding  that  which  accompanied  'Linda/  which  was  generally  admitted 
to  be  the  best  story  ever  written  for  a  newspaper.  That  was  certainly  high 
praise,  but  'Rena'  takes  precedence  even  of  its  predecessor,  and,  in  both, 
Mrs.  Lee  Hentz  has  achieved  a  triumph  of  no  ordinary  kind.  It  is  not 
that  old  associations  bias  our  judgment,  for  though  from  the  appearance, 
years  since,  of  the  famous  'Mob  Cap'  in  this  paper,  we  formed  an  exalted 
opinion  of  the  womanly  and  literary  excellence  of  the  writer,  our  feelings 
have,  in  the  interim,  had  quite  sufficient  leisure  to  cool ;  yet,  after  the 
lapse  of  years,  we  have  continued  to  maintain  the  same  literary  devotion 
to  this  best  of  our  female  writers.  The  two  last  productions  of  Mrs.  Lee 
Hentz  now  fully  confirm  our  previously  formed  opinion,  and  we  unhesi 
tatingly  commend  'Rena/  now  published  in  book  form,  in  beautiful  style, 
by  T.  B.  Peterson,  as  a  story  which,  in  its  varied,  deep,  and  thrilling  in 
terest,  has  no  superior." — American  Courier. 

MARCUS  WARLAND;  or,  THE  LONG  MOSS 
SPRING.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price 
One  Dol.,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"  Every  succeeding  chapter  of  this  new  and  beautiful  nouvellette  of  Mrs. 
Hentz  increases  in  interest  and  pathos.  We  defy  any  one  to  read  aloud 
the  chapters  to  a  listening  auditory,  without  deep  emotion,  or  producing 
many  a  pearly  tribute  to  its  truthfulness,  pathos,  and  power." — Am.  Courier. 

"It  is  pleasant  to  meet  now  and  then  with  a  tale  like  this,  which  seems 
rather  like  a  narrative  of  real  events  than  a  creature  of  the  imagination." 
— N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 


iy  MRS.  HENTZ'S  WORKS. 

EOLINE ;  or,  MAGNOLIA  YALE.  Complete  in  two 
volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dol.,  or  bound  in  one 
volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"We  do  not  think  that  amongst  American  authors,  there  is  one  more 
pleasing  or  more  instructive  than  Mrs.  Hentz.  This  novel  is  eo6ual  to  any 
which  she  has  written." — Cincinnati  Gazette. 

"A  charming  and  delightful  story,  and  will  add  to  the  well-merited  re 
putation  of  its  fair  and  gifted  author." — Southern  Literary  Gazette. 

HELEN  AND  ARTHUR.  Complete  in  two  volumes, 
paper  cover,  price  One  Dol.,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"A  story  of  domestic  life,  written  in  Mrs.  Hentz's  best  vein.  The  de 
tails  of  the  plot  are  skilfully  elaborated,  and  many  passages  are  deeply 
pathetic." — Commercial  Advertiser. 

LO YE  AFTER  MARRIAGE ;  and  other  Stories.  Com 
plete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dol.,  or  bound 
in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"  This  is  a  charming  and  instructive  story — one  of  those  beautiful  efforts 
that  enchant  the  mind,  refreshing  and  strengthening  it." — City  Item. 
"  The  work  before  us  is  a  charming  one." — Boston  Evening  Journal. 

THE  BANISHED  SON;  and  other  Stories.  Complete 
in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dol.,  or  bound  in 
one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

The  'Banished  Son'  seems  to  us  the  chef  d'oeuvre  of  the  collection.  It 
appeals  to  all  the  nobler  sentiments  of  humanity,  is  full  of  action  and 
healthy  excitement,  and  sets  forth  the  best  of  morals." — Charleston  Weekly 
News. 

AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP  BAG,  together  with  large  ad 
ditions  to  it,  written  by  Mrs.  Hentz,  prior  to  her  death, 
and  never  before  published  in  any  former  edition  of  this 
work.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One 
Dol.,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"We  venture  to  assert  that  there  is  not  one  reader  who  has  not  been 
made  wiser  and  better  by  its  perusal — who  has  not  been  enabled  to  treasure 
up  golden  precepts  of  morality,  virtue,  and  experience,  as  guiding  princi 
ples  of  their  own  commerce  with  the  world." — American  Courier. 

2^-  Copies  of  either  edition  of  any  of  the  foregoing  works  will  be  sent 
to  any  person,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  free  of  postage,  on  their 
remitting  the  price  of  the  ones  they  may  wish,  to  the  publisher,  in  a  letter. 

Published  and  for  Sale  by  T.  B.  PETERSON, 

No.  102  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia. 


ROBEUT   GRAHAU    AT   TUB    TOMB   OF   HIS   MOTHElt 


ROBERT   GRAHAM, 


A  SEQUEL  TO  "LINDA." 


BY  MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ. 

AUTHOR  OF  "COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE,"  «  THE  PLANTER'S  NORTHERN 
BRIDE,"  "LINDA,"  "REN  A,"  "ERNEST  LIN  WOOD,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


'Ask  me  not  why  I  should  love  her: 

Look  upon  those  soul-full  eyesl 
Look  while  mirth  or  feeling  move  her, 

And  see  there  how  sweetly  rise 
Thoughts  gay  and  gentle  from  a  breast 
Which  is  of  innocence  the  nest — 
Which,  though  each  joy  were  from  it  fled, 
By  truth  would  still  be  tenanted!"— Hoffman. 

'The  sweetest  joy,  the  wildest  joy  is  love; 
The  taint  of  earth,  the  odor  of  the  skies. 
Is  in  it."  Bailey's  ITsstus. 


$  I)  t 1  a  b  1 1  p  I)  t  a : 

T.  B.  PETERSON,  NO.  102   CHESTNUT  STREET, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

PARRY  &  MCMILLAN, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED   BY   L.   JOHNSON   AND   CO. 
PHILADELPHIA. 


Printed  ty  T.  K  &  P.  O.  Collins. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  following  pages  contain  a  sequel  to  the  history  of 
"  Linda  and  the  Young  Pilot  of  the  Belle-Creole."  Those 
familiar  with  the  previous  scenes  of  her  life  will  need 
no  key  to  understand  the  allusions  to  the  past.  A  few 
words  of  explanation,  however,  may  not  be  thought 
superfluous  as  introductory  to  the  present  work,  for  it 
may  fall  into  the  hands  of  some  to  whom  it  would  other 
wise  be  obscure  and  imperfect. 

Mr.  Walton,  the  father  of  Linda,  when  she  was  a 
very  young  child,  married  the  mother  of  Robert  Graham, 
a  cruel  and  despotic  woman.  As  a  means  of  securing 
the  fortune  of  the  young  heiress,  she  resolves  upon  her 
marriage  with  her  son,  then  a  headstrong  and  passion 
ate  boy.  The  persecution  which  Linda  endures  on  this 
account,  the  manner  in  which  she  escapes  them,  the 
unconquerable  passion  of  her  step-brother,  the  heroism 
and  gallantry  of  Roland  Lee,  the  young  pilot,  whom 
she  afterward  marries,  and  the  conversion  of  Robert 
Graham,  are  the  leading  incidents  in  the  history  of 
Linda. 

We  trust  those  who  remember   them  will  read  witl 
nterest  the  continuation  of  her  eventful  career  ;  and  w 
entreat  those  who  are  strangers  to  her  early  history,  to 
turn  to  the  pages  on  which  it  is  recorded  before  perus 
ing  the  life  of   Robert   Graham,  that   the   triumph   of 
religious  principles,  exemplified  in  his   character,  may 
be  fully  understood. 

M150882 


ROBERT  GRAHAM. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MOONLIGHT  rests  upon  Pine  Grove.  The  tall  trees,  whose 
number  and  stateliness  give  name  to  the  darkly-shaded  place, 
lift  up  their  green  tuft-knots  to  the  skies,  and  the  live  oaks, 
with  their  long  sweeping  drapery  of  gray  old  moss,  stretch 
their  druid  arms  before  the  white-walled  mansion. 

Beneath  the  solemn  shadows  of  the  oaks  and  pines,  a  tall 
figure  walks,  pensive  and  lonely,  its  outlines  alternately  silvered 
by  moonlight  and  darkened  by  shade ;  but  they  may  still  be 
recognised  as  the  unrivalled  lineaments  of  Robert  Graham. 

Years  passed  under  the  burning  sun  of  an  Indian  clime  have 
not  dimmed  the  splendour  of  his  manly  beauty,  or  even  dark 
ened  the  whiteness  of  his  marble  brow.  He  has  been  on  a  holy 
mission,  and  if  the  face  of  the  prophet  shone,  after  being  forty 
days  on  the  mountain  with  the  God  of  Israel,  it  is  not  strange 
that  one,  who  had  been  for  three  years  in  daily,  hourly  inter 
course  with  his  Maker,  should  bear  on  his  countenance  the  re 
flection  of  His  excellent  glory. 

Yes!  Robert  Graham,  having  returned  once  more  to  his  na 
tive  land,  sought  the  home  of  his  boyhood,  and  the  grave  of 
his  mother.  His  last  act  before  embarking  for  a  foreign  clime 
was  the  erection  of  a  monument  to  her  memory,  a  twin  obelisk 
to  that  which  marked  the  spot  where  the  mother  of  Linda  was 
laid.  Thither  he  now  bent  his  footsteps,  through  the  long 
dewy  grass  which  overgrew  the  path  in  rank  luxuriance. 
Negroes  shun  the  place  of  graves,  believing  it  thronged  with 
the  spirits  of  the  dead;  and  it  may  be  questioned  if  the  gate 

5 


•• 


•.ROBERT  GRAHAM: 


which  led  into  this  enclosure  had  been  opened  since  Robert 
closed  it  on  the  evening  of  his  departure.  The  damp  weeds 
clung  to  his  feet,  and  impeded  his  steps.  A  weeping  willow, 
planted  by  her  husband,  swept  its  long  branches  over  the  grave 
of  the  first  Mrs.  Walton,  and  Linda's  hand  had  set  out  a  beau 
tiful  white  rose  tree,  which  was  now  full  of  neglected  blossoms. 
At  this  moment  it  was  snowing  down  its  fragrant  petals  on  the 
dark  green  turf,  and  the  night  wind,  as  it  drifted  the  light  flakes 
here  and  there,  sighed  softly  in  the  mourner's  ear.  Yes,  Ro 
bert  stood  there,  a  mourner — a  brotherless,  sisterless  mourner — 
over  the  remains  of  her,  who,  though  harsh  and  cold  to  all  the 
rest  of  the  world,  had  loved  him,  even  to  idolatry.  He  knew 
that  she  was  odious  to  many,  unlovely  to  all;  that  no  blessings 
hallowed  her  death-slumbers;  that  no  tears  embalmed  her 
memory,  or  kept  it  green  and  blooming  in  the  heart.  But 
surely  she  deserved  to  be  mourned  by  him  whom  she  had  so 
fondly,  so  exclusively  loved.  Kneeling  down  by  the  marble 
column,  and  pressing  his  temples  against  the  cold  surface,  he 
wept  in  the  desolation  of  his  soul.  The  stillness  of  the  hour, 
the  solemnity  of  the  spot,  the  melancholy  splendour  of  the  night, 
the  memories  of  the  past,  the  isolation  of  his  own  destiny,  all 
weighed  upon  his  heart,  and  crushed  it  down  to  earth.  He 
tried  to  lift  his  thoughts  heavenward,  but  like  the  broken  wings 
of  a  bird,  they  fluttered,  incapable  of  rising. 

Never  before  had  he  been  so  fully  conscious  of  the  solitari 
ness  of  his  position,  never  had  he  so  yearned  for  human  sym 
pathy  and  kindred  love.  There  are  moments  when  the  firm 
hands  of  Faith  let  go  the  sustaining  anchor,  and  her  lifted  eye 
droops  toward  the  dust;  when  devotion  ceases  to  exalt,  and  hope 
to  cheer;  when  the  claims  of  the  soul  seem  lost  in  the  clamours 
of  the  craving,  famishing  heart.  No  food  to  fill  the  aching 
vacuum  there.  No  fountain  opened  in  the  desert  of  life,  to 
glake  the  unquenchable,  burning  thirst. 

No  one  who  had  seen  the  young  missionary,  surrounded  by 
his  Indian  proselytes,  his  eyes  flashing,  his  cheeks  glowing  with 


A   SEQUEL   TO    LINDA.  7 

a  Christian's  enthusiasm  and  a  martyr's  zeal,  so  full  of  energy 
vitality,  and  fire,  would  have  recognised  the  same  in  the  pale> 
subdued,  and  sorrowing  man  kneeling  by  that  marble  tomb. 

It  was  not  of  his  mother  alone  he  thought.  The  one  great 
sorrow  of  his  life  was  awakened,  and  the  wound  that  he  be 
lieved  time  had  healed,  opened  and  bled  afresh.  Every  thing 
reminded  him  of  her  whom  he  had  loved  so  unwisely,  so  wildly, 
and  so  idolatrously.  The  dreams  of  his  boyhood,  the  hopes 
of  his  manhood,  revived  and  bloomed  with  momentary  bright 
ness,  only  to  be  blighted  by  the  cold  breath  of  reality,  and 
swept  rudely  away.  He  thought  he  had  learned  to  look  upon 
Linda  as  the  wife  of  another,  to  love  her  as  a  sister,  to  esteem 
her  as  a  friend;  but  this  one  moment  of  self-abandonment, 
when  the  memories  of  years  were  concentrated  in  one  pulse  of 
the  heart,  convinced  him,  that  though  religion  kept  in  vassal 
age  the  wild  elements  of  human  passion,  they  still  existed  in 
all  their  breadth,  and  length,  and  strength. 

During  three  years  he  had  devoted  himself,  heart  and  soul, 
to  the  conversion  of  the  heathen.  He  had  spent  his  days  in 
toil  and  his  nights  in  prayer.  In  the  spirit  of  a  sublime  self- 
sacrifice,  in  the  strength  of  a  holy,  earnest  purpose,  he  had  la 
boured,  forgetful  of  himself  in  the  mighty  interests  which  he 
had  espoused.  In  all  this  time,  he  had  never  yielded  to  the 
tempter's  power.  He  had  never  loosened  the  girdle  of  self- 
denial  ;  but  with  the  word  of  inspiration  in  his  hand,  and  its 
eloquence  on  his  lips,  he  had  gone  on  from  strength  to  strength, 
and  from  glory  to  glory.  Where  were  inspiration,  strength,  and 
glory  now  ?  Plunged  in  the  gulf  of  memory.  He  was  no  longer 
the  heaven-dedicated  apostle,  but  the  solitary,  heart-stricken 
man. 

"Where  are  the  voices  of  home?"  he  cried,  rising  and 
gazing  around  him  through  the  soft,  glimmering,  silvery  atmo 
sphere,  while  a  slight  shiver  ran  through  his  frame. 

"Is  this  the  joy  of  return  ?  This  the  wanderer's  welcome 
back;  after  years  of  absence,  to  his  native  land  ?  Loneliness — • 


8  ROBERT    GRAHAM  I 

loneliness ! — I  seem  to  see  the  ghost  of  my  former  self  gliding 
amid  the  shadows,  multiplying  as  I  gaze,  like  the  images  re 
flected  from  a  broken  mirror." 

A  noise  at  the  gate  caused  him  to  turn  his  head.  He  could 
not  help  starting;  for  just  above  the  white  paling,  a  large, 
dark,  ferocious-looking  head  rose,  huge  and  massy  as  that  of 
the  Egyptian  sphinx.  He  gazed  one  moment,  then,  with  a 
feeling  of  joyous  recognition,  he  sprang  toward  the  gate. 

"  Bruno,  Bruno !"  he  cried;  "  you  have  not  then  forgotten  me." 

A  quick,  eager,  continued  barking  was  the  reply,  while  the 
great,  quivering  paws,  pressing  on  the  upper  bars  of  the  gate, 
endeavoured  to  accelerate  his  motions  as  he  opened  it.  The  mo 
ment  he  came  in  contact  with  his  master's  person,  he  bounded 
up  in  the  air,  as  if  about  to  leap  on  his  neck  and  embrace  him 
with  his  shaggy  paws — then  crouching  to  the  ground,  he 
licked  his  feet,  laid  his  warm  cheek  heavily  upon  them,  and 
turning  his  eye  obliquely  upward,  looked  in  his  face  with  the 
most  earnest  and  intense  expression. 

Robert  stooped  down  and  patted  the  head  of  his  dumb  friend 
again  and  again.  His  chilled  heart  grew  warm,  while  meet 
ing  these  demonstrations  of  affectionate  remembrance.  Next 
to  his  fleet  black  horse,  he  had  loved  the  magnificent  Bruno. 
He  was  associated  with  Linda  in  his  memory,  who  delighted 
in  petting  the  noble  brute.  He  passed  his  hand  involuntarily 
round  its  neck,  almost  expecting  to  feel  the  withered  leaves  of 
the  garlands  with  which  she  used  to  wreath  his  lion  hair. 
The  large,  dark-brown  eyes  of  the  dog  fixed  upon  him,  seemed 
to  ask  after  her,  whom  he  had  so  faithfully  guarded,  and  so 
affectionately  loved. 

"She  is  gone,"  said  Robert,  in  answer  to  the  beseeching 
glance;  "we  are  alone,  Bruno.  The  world  is  a  lone  place, 
Bruno,  when  there  are  none  left  to  love  us." 

As  Robert  uttered  these  words,  he  found  himself  surrounded 
by  a  group  of  dark,  smiling  faces,  whose  expression  belied  the 
truth  of  the  assertion.  The  loud  barking  of  the  dog  had 


A    SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  9 

roused  the  inmates  of  the  nearest  cabins,  and  the  cry  of  "  The 
Master  is  come  !"  resounded  through  the  walls.  The  young 
minister  had  become  an  object  of  reverence  as  well  as  love,  to 
those  who  had  once  regarded  him  with  terror  and  aversion, 
and  they  crowded  round  him  with  demonstrations  of  joy  and 
welcome,  almost  as  boisterous  as  Bruno's.  The  missionary 
labours  to  which  he  had  devoted  himself  consecrated  him  in  their 
eyes.  In  imagination  they  beheld  his  brow  encircled  with  the 
halo  of  the  saint  and  the  crown  of  the  martyr.  At  first  they 
thought  they  ought  not  to  call  him  "  Master  Robert,"  as  in  old 
time;  but  habit  triumphed  over  religious  awe,  and  they  were 
astonished  to  find  how  natural  and  easy  it  sounded. 

Again  a  warm  gush  of  emotion  flowed  into  Robert's  lonely 
heart,  like  the  waters  of  the  tide  over  the  barren  sands.  Un 
grateful  being  that  he  was!  There  were  some  objects  of  in 
terest  and  affection  left.  His  dog  remembered  and  loved  him. 
The  negroes  remembered  him,  and  greeted  him  with  enthusi 
astic  joy;  and  looking  up  to  the  visible  glory,  he  thought  of 
Him  the  Invisible,  who  remembered  and  loved  him,  and  he 
no  longer  felt  alone. 

The  barred  doors  were  thrown  open,  the  shutters  unclosed, 
and  a  light-wood  fire  kindled  in  the  long-darkened  fireplace. 
The  late  silent  yard  was  alive  with  human  beings.  Robert 
threw  himself  into  an  easy  chair,  drawn  up  toward  the  fire  ex 
pressly  for  his  accommodation,  and  gazed  around  on  the  old 
familiar  walls.  Bruno,  seated  in  the  opposite  corner,  followed 
every  motion  of  his  master's  eyes,  as  if  sympathizing  with  the 
feelings  they  expressed. 

It  was  an  autumnal  evening,  and  the  contrast  of  the  chilly 
night-air  abroad,  and  the  warmth  diffused  from  the  blazing 
pine-knots,  was  inexpressibly  grateful.  The  occasional  crack 
ling  of  the  fire  had  a  sociable,  comfortable  sound,  and  the 
reflection  of  the  glow  on  the  polished  and  shining  floor  was  rich 
and  cheering.  Linda's  piano  stood  exactly  where  it  formerly 
did,  between  the  two  front  windows,  covered  with  a  scarlet  cloth, 


10  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

embroidered  with  black.  The  very  songs  he  had  last  heard 
her  play  lay  upon  a  little  music-stand,  under  the  window.  On 
a  small  work-table,  where  she  was  accustomed  to  sit,  a  basket 
made  of  the  dark-brown  cones  of  the  pine  tree,  and  lined  with 
satin,  was  placed  just  where  it  was  years  ago.  The  same  pic 
ture  adorned  the  walls — but  how  different  they  seemed !  Those 
of  Mr.  Walton  and  his  mother  were  covered  with  black  crape,  in 
dicating  the  death  of  the  originals.  This  mourning  closed  some 
what  and  softened  the  glaring  colours  and  rude  outlines  of  the 
portraits,  and  as  they  were  surrounded  by  massy  gilded  frames, 
they  were  considered  highly  ornamental.  There  was  one  of 
Linda  hung  above  the  piano,  in  the  costume  of  a  shepherdess, 
with  a  crook  in  her  hand  and  a  lamb  at  her  feet.  It  was  taken 
while  she  was  a  school-girl,  during  the  vacation  she  passed  at 
home,  by  the  same  itinerant  artist  who  had  executed  the  other 
pictures.  The  painter  considered  it  the  most  splendid  mani 
festation  of  his  genius,  and  had  lavished  on  it  an  exuberance 
of  taste  that  would  have  impoverished  the  great  Italian  mas 
ters.  A  blue  skirt,  with  a  pink  bodice;  a  straw  hat,  trimmed  with 
golden-coloured  riband,  and  twined  with  a  garland  of  varie 
gated  flowers,  formed  a  costume  whose  gaudiness  was  enhanced, 
not  relieved,  by  a  background  representing  the  most  gorgeous 
sunset,  behind  clouds  of  crimson,  purple,  and  orange.  Had 
Linda  been  at  home  at  the  time  of  its  completion,  she  would 
have  checked  this  lavish  profusion  of  colours;  but  she  had 
only  sat  for  the  face,  leaving  the  rest  to  the  imagination  of  the 
artist.  With  merry  laughter  she  greeted  the  caricature  when 
it  first  met  her  sight,  but  begged  it  might  be  removed  to  the 
lumber-room,  or  put  up  in  the  corn-fields  to  frighten  away  the 
birds.  Mrs.  Walton  resented  the  petition,  declaring  it  a  per 
fect  likeness,  only  somewhat  flattered;  and  as  long  as  Linda 
remained,  it  served  as  an  excellent  foil  for  her  own  loveliness. 
Now,  the  beautiful  original  was  not  by  to  vindicate  her  out 
raged  charms,  Robert  gazed  upon  it  with  indignation  and  dis 
gust. 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  11 

u'Tis  mockery, — 'tis  sacrilege,"  he  exclaimed;  and  starting 
up,  he  took  down  the  picture,  resolving  to  banish  it  by  morn 
ing  light,  and  turned  its  face  to  the  wall.  He  felt  better  after 
he  had  done  this,  and  the  angel  painted  by  memory  smiled 
from  the  inverted  frame. 

The  annunciation  that  a  carriage  was  winding  up  the  avenue, 
iven  by  one  of  the  excited  negroes,  sent  him  again  into  the 
open  air.  The  hour  was  so  late,  and  the  mansion-house  had 
been  so  long  closed,  that  this  annunciation  had  a  startling 
effect.  He  could  think  of  but  one  visitor,  and  his  heart  beat 
wildly,  as  he  stood  and  watched  each  revolution  of  the  wheels 
which  brought  the  travellers  nearer  to  the  gate.  He  was  so 
much  agitated,  that  he  could  scarcely  command  his  voice  so 
as  to  call  away  Bruno,  who  was  barking  most  vociferously  in 
front  of  the  horses.  A  faint  scream  from  the  carriage  con 
vinced  him,  that  if  it  contained  Linda,  she  was  accompanied 
by  a  female  companion,  for  she  would  never  shriek  at  the  bark 
-of  Bruno. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  large  gate  at  the  entrance  of 
the  yard,  and  Robert  rapidly  approached  it.  The  door  opened, 
and  a  gentleman  descended,  or  rather  bounded  down  the  steps. 
With  both  hands  extended,  he  sprang  toward  Robert,  exclaim 
ing* — 

" Robert  Graham,  how  I  rejoice  to  see  you!  Do  you  not 
know  me  ?  Have  you  forgotten  your  old  college  chum,  Henry 
Bellenden?" 

" Forgotten  him,  no!"  cried  Robert,  returning  the  cordial 
grasp  of  his  hand  with  one  of  equal  warmth.  "  When  I  for 
get  him,  may  my  right  hand  forget  its  cunning.  Welcome  to 
Pine  Grove,  sad  and  deserted  as  it  is.  But  you  are  not  alone." 

"My  sister  is  with  me,"  replied  Bellenden.  "Poor  girl! 
she  is  not  very  strong,  and  is  completely  jaded  out  by  one  long 
day's  journey. — Julia,"  added  he,  jumping  upon  the  lower 
step,  and  taking  a  young  girl  by  the  hand,  whose  figure, 
shawled,  bonneted  and  veiled,  was  completely  shrouded, — • 


12  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"Julia,  this  is  my  friend,  Robert  Graham,  of  whom  you  have 
heard  me  so  often  speak/' 

As  the  little  muffled  figure  bent  forward  in  response  to  the 
bow  with  which  Robert  acknowledged  the  introduction,  Bel- 
lenden  caught  it  in  his  arms,  as  if  it  were  an  infant. 

"  Don't  make  a  baby  of  me,  brother/'  said  a  sweet-toned 
voice  behind  the  veil;  "I  can  walk,  you  know  I  can." 

"You  said  just  now  you  were  too  tired  to  breathe,  and  I  am 
sure  walking  is  a  more  laborious  operation  than  breathing," 
replied  her  brother,  placing  her  on  the  threshold  of  the  man 
sion,  which  they  had  just  reached.  The  blaze  from  the  room 
illumined  the  hall,  where  several  bright-faced  negro  girls  waited 
to  usher  them  into  the  parlour.  The  young  girl,  releasing  her 
self  from  her  brother's  arms,  stepped  lightly  forward,  as  if 
anxious  to  prove  that  there  was  an  elastic  principle  within  un 
bent  by  fatigue,  but  the  moment  she  beheld  the  easy  chair,  she 
sank  into  its  depths,  with  an  audible  "  Thank  heaven  I" 

Minta,  one  of  aunt  Judy's  well-trained  handmaids,  assumed 
the  station  of  honour  behind  her  chair,  asking  her  if  she  should 
not  take  her  bonnet  and  shawl.  The  close  vicinity  of  the 
negress,  as  well  as  her  polite  assiduities,  seemed  to  disconcert 
the  young  traveller,  for  she  shook  her  head,  drew  her  veil  closer 
over  her  face,  and  shrunk  back  still  farther  into  the  soft-cush 
ioned  chair.  Thus  baffling  the  gaze  of  curiosity,  she  sat  lean 
ing  her  head  on  her  hand,  which  was  so  small,  so  white,  and 
so  beautiful  in  its  outlines,  it  seemed  a  pledge  of  the  loveliness 
of  her  features. 

"  You  must  pardon  me,"  said  Bellenden,  "  for  having  in 
truded  upon  you  at  this  late  hour  so  unexpectedly  and  so  un 
ceremoniously.  The  truth  is,  we  are  poor  benighted  travellers, 
looking  for  a  place  of  rest.  I  knew  you  lived  in  this  country, 
and  came  far  out  of  my  way  to  seek  you;  but  did  not  know 
your  locality,  till  a  few  miles  back,  when  I  was  inquiring  for 
the  nearest  house  of  entertainment,  I  was  told  I  must  ride 
twelve  miles  farther,  unless  I  stopped  at  Mrs.  Walton's,  or  Mr. 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  13 

Graham's,  rather.  'Was  it  Mr.  Robert  Graham  ?'  I  asked. 
'  Yes,  Mr.  Robert  Graham ;  but  he  was  absent,  he  was  gone 
to  India.  Perhaps  I  could  get  admittance,  however,  for  the 
overseer  and  negroes  were  here,  and  if  I  announced  myself  as 
their  master's  friend  it  would  be  sufficient/  Think  of  my 
joy,  my  gratitude,  when  I  beheld  your  well-known  figure  ap 
proaching  the  carriage  j  for  though  I  think  you  are  taller  and 
much  altered  since  we  parted  on  the  steps  of  the  Rotunda,  there 
is  something  about  Robert  Graham  which  distinguishes  him 
from  all  others." 

Here  he  again  seized  the  hand  of  Robert,  and  shook  it  with 
true  college  vehemence. 

"  POM  are  unaltered,"  replied  Robert,  scanning  with  a  glance 
of  pleasure  the  bright,  animated  countenance,  slight,  spirited 
figure,  and  intellectual  bearing  of  his  friend.  "  I  never  saw  any 
one  retain  so  remarkably  their  youthfulness,  even  boyishness  of 
appearance." 

"No  reflection,  I  trust,  on  the  inferiority  of  my  size  to 
yours,"  said  Bellenden,  looking  down  on  himself,  and  then 
upward  to  Robert's  loftier  height,  while  a  slight  shade  passed 
over  the  beaming  good-humour  of  his  face.  "The  truth  is, 
Graham,  I  do  not  like  this  extreme  youthfulness  of  appearance. 
I  would  give  half  a  kingdom,  were  it  mine,  for  a  little  of  your 
unvalued  height." 

"I  may  have  some  advantage  over  you  in  a  crowd,"  said 
Robert,  "  but  not  at  the  fireside,  not  at  the  bar,  not  in  any 
scene  where  mind  prevails  over  matter.  But  I  hear  the  bell 
that  summons  us  to  supper.  I  hope  you  are  prepared  to  sit 
down  with  a  traveller's  appetite.  Will  not  Miss  Bellenden 
throw  aside  her  bonnet  and  shawl  ?  She  will  find  a  warm  cup 
of  tea  or  coffee  the  best  antidote  to  fatigue." 

He  advanced  toward  the  chair  as  he  spoke,  where  she  laii 
guidly  reclined,  and  stood  by  it,  waiting  her  motion. 

"Come,  Julia,"  said  her  brother,  "you  will  not  detain  our 
host  from  the  table,  for  he  tells  me  that,  like  ourselves,  he  has 
19 


14  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

just  arrived  from  a  long  journey.  I  do  believe  she  is  asleep," 
he  added,  bending  over  her,  and  lifting  the  veil  from  her 
face. 

"No,  indeed/'  said  she,  "only  resting/'  then  rising,  with 
a  light,  graceful  motion,  she  threw  back  the  large  crimson 
shawl  which  enveloped  her,  untied  her  bonnet,  which  the  wait 
ing  Minta  eagerly  received,  and  raising  both  hands,  smoothed 
back  the  fair  hair,  which,  disordered  by  the  jolting  of  the  car 
riage,  fell  too  shadingly  over  her  brow.  It  is  impossible  to 
conceive  of  a  complexion  more  transccndently  fair,  and  the 
soft  redundance  of  locks  of  paly  gold  seemed  literally  to  gild 
this  fairness.  She  might  have  looked  too  pale,  too  delicate, 
but  the  glow  of  the  fire-light  was  warm  upon  her  cheek.  With 
the  hand  of  a  fairy,  the  foot  of  a  Cinderella,  and  the  form  of 
a  sylph,  she  combined,  in  appearance,  the  innocence  of  child 
hood  with  the  grace  of  womanhood.  Henry  Bellenden  glanced 
at  Robert,  as  his  sister  emerged  from  her  transient  eclipse,  as 
sured  the  gaze  of  admiration  must  be  riveted  on  her  beauty. 
But  there  was  something  in  the  expression  of  his  dark  and  se 
rious  eyes  that  baffled  his  scrutiny, — something  he  could  not 
fathom.  It  was  a  "  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts." 

"  I  do  not  care  for  supper,"  said  Julia,  placing  her  hand  on 
her  brother's  arm,  "  but  I  will  go  with  you." 

"  You  will  care  now,  I  am  sure,"  said  Henry,  when  they 
were  ushered  into  a  room  as  brilliantly  lighted  as  the  parlour, 
perfumed  with  the  warm  odours  rising  from  a  table  covered 
with  every  thing  that  could  tempt  the  most  desiring  appetite, 
for  the  negroes  had  been  expecting  their  master,  and  reserving 
for  him  the  luxuries  of  the  plantation.  "Why,  this  is  a  feast 
worthy  of  the  gods,  and  I  for  one  am  prepared  to  do  it  jus 
tice.  I  never  tasted  finer  coffee.  It  is  perfectly  inspiring.  It 
imparts  to  the  blood  a  generous  fervour,  and  is  only  equalled 
by  a  goblet  of  Samian  wine.  Do  you  remember,  Graham, 
that  noble  punch-bowl,  in  which  we  were  wont  to  pledge  each 
other  at  our  college  suppers,  and  which  the  class  bequeathed  to 


A    SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  15 

me  on  its  breaking  up  ?  I  have  it  still.  I  carried  it  home 
with  me,  at  the  risk  of  its  being  broken  in  a  thousand  pieces, 
and  on  any  great  or  glorious  occasion  I  bring  it  forth,  and 
hallow  the  memory  of  auld-lang-syne.  Ah,  college  days,  col 
lege  days,  Graham !  The  wine  of  life  sparkled  bright  then 
on  the  beaker's  brim,  and  we  had  not  touched  its  lees/7 

"  Methinks  the  wine  still  sparkles  in  your  brimming  cup/' 
said  Robert,  as  he  met  the  bright,  genial  expression  of  Hen 
ry's  warm  blue  eye.  "  It  has  not  begun  to  effervesce." 

t(  Between  those  college  days  and  the  present  moment,"  re 
plied  Henry,  and  the  warm  light  of  his  eyes  grew  suddenly 
cold,  "  there  has  been  time  for  empires  to  wax  and  wane,  though 
but  a  few  fleeting  years.  What  changes,  then,  may  have  taken 
place  in  the  heart  of  men !" 

There  was  a  pause  after  this  remark,  which  no  one  seemed 
disposed  to  break.  Julia  balanced  her  teaspoon  on  the  edge 
of  her  cup,  without  tasting  its  contents.  She  looked  weary  and 
disconcerted,  and  shrank  with  evident  embarrassment  from  the 
profuse  civilities  of  the  servants.  It  was  not  strange  that  a 
young  girl  should  feel  oppressed  with  embarrassment  on  find 
ing  herself  in  the  house  of  a  stranger,  the  host  a  young  and 
unmarried  man,  without  mother  or  sister  to  welcome  her,  not 
a  single  white  female  for  her  companion  and  friend;  and  when 
that  young  girl  was  an  invalid,  yearning  for  sympathy  and 
tenderness,  and  cherishing  home-cares,  it  would  have  been 
stranger  still,  if  she  had  not  felt  the  desolation  of  home-sick 
ness,  which  now  banished  her  appetite  and  quenched. her  thirst. 
She  was,  moreover  of  Northern  birth,  and  her  unaccustomed 
eye  had  not  yet  become  reconciled  to  the  dark-hued  Africans 
who  surrounded  her  like  the  shadows  of  night.  She  thought 
of  the  gentle  mother  and  loving  sister  whom  she  had  left  in 
her  own  bright  home,  and  longed  to  be  alone,  that  she  might 
cry  herself  to  sleep,  like  the  homesick  child  she  was.  Yet 
she  shrank  from  the  anticipated  loneliness  of  her  chamber,  and 
vainly  wished  that  they  hud  continued  travelling  the  whole 


16  ROBEKT  GRAHAM: 

moonlit  night;  then  she  would  not  have  been  separated  from 
her  brother.  Every  inexperienced  young  traveller  in  a  strange 
land  can  understand  and  sympathize  with  her  emotions,  and 
never  was  a  being  more  governed  by  the  circumstances  of  the 
present  moment,  more  impulsive  in  her  feelings,  or  more  sensi 
tively  delicate,  than  Julia  Bellenden. 

When  Henry,  in  the  warmth  and  anxiety  of  fraternal  love, 
suggested  a  journey  to  the  South,  and  a  sojourn  during  the 
winter  in  some  of  its  sweet  orange  bowers,  far  from  northern 
snows  and  eastern  blasts,  she  was  almost  wild  with  delight. 
She  was  willing  to  travel  all  the  world  over  with  Henry;  and 
a  visit  to  the  land  of  flowers,  was  something  of  which  she  had 
dreamed,  but  never  expected  to  realize.  She  was  reconciled 
to  the  fragility  of  constitution  which  made  it  necessary  for 
her  to  shun  the  deadly  blasts  which  sweep  over  the  Atlantic 
coast — she  was  buoyed  up  by  the  most  gladdening  hopes. 
Like  all  of  ardent  temperament,  she  was  doomed  to  meet 
with  disappointments,  which  she  was  unwilling  to  acknow 
ledge.  She  had  expected,  as  she  advanced  on  her  journey 
towards  the  South,  to  find  her  path  literally  strewed  with 
roses,  and  every  wildwood  and  "  bushy  dingle"  resonant  with 
the  songs  of  birds,  and  radiant  with  their  plumage.  She  ex 
pected,  too,  to  find  in  the  home  of  strangers  the  warmth  and 
affection  of  her  own. 

More  than  once,  during  her  journey,  she  had  experienced 
the 

"Yearning  anguish  of  the  stranger's  heart;" 

and  wished  she  had  never  left  the  shelter  of  her  native  home; 
but  she  had  not  yet  rested  in  one  of  those  tropical  bowers 
where  the  spirit  basks  in  the  beams  of  perpetual  summer. 
She  was  still  a  bird  of  passage,  and  her  wings  were  fluttering 
(or  a  downy  nest. 


A    SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  17 


CHAPTER  II.' 

THE  room  appropriated  to  Julia's  accommodation  was  the 
one  occupied  by  Linda  after  her  return  from  school.  An  air 
of  youth,  purity,  and  freshness  breathed  through  the  apart 
ment.  The  white  muslin  drapery,  relieved  by  festoons  of 
rose  colour;  the  carpet,  with  its  pattern  of  roses,  denned  on  a 
groundwork  of  shaded  green ;  the  decorations  of  the  mantel 
piece  and  toilet,  reminded  Julia  of  her  own  home-chamber, 
and  she  felt  that  the  spirit  of  womanhood  lingered  there, 
though  its  presence  was  wanting. 

"  This  was  Miss  Lindy's  room,"  said  Minta,  smiling  with 
gratification,  as  she  noticed  the  approving  glance  of  Julia. 

"And  who  was  Miss  Linda?"  asked  the  young  traveller. 

"La!  don't  you  know?"  exclaimed  the  girl,  with  a  look 
of  unaffected  astonishment:  "she  was  my  young  mistress; 
and  the  beautifullest,  and  sweetest,  and  smartest  young  lady 
there  ever  was  in  the  world." 

"  Is  she  dead  ?"  asked  Julia,  in  a  saddened  tone. 

"Oh!  mercy,  no;  she's  married,  and  lives  way  off,  down 
the  river,  in  Louisiana;  and  such  a  time  as  she  had  of  it, — 
with  old  mistress  and  young  master,  'fore  she  went  off,  nobody 
ever  did  have  this  side  o'  Jordan.  But  he  ain't  now  what  he 
was  then,  Master  Robert  ain't, — by  a  long  deal;  he's  another 
sort  of  a  person  from  what  he  used  to  be,  since  he  got  re 
ligion." 

Julia's  interest  and  curiosity  were  awakened  by  the  re 
marks  of  the  negro;  but  she  thought  it  indelicate  and  dis 
honourable  to  take  advantage  of  the  loquacity  of  a  servant, 
and  become  familiar  with  those  family  secrets  which  should 
be  sacred  from  the  stranger's  knowledge.  She  repressed  the 


18  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

questions  that  rose  to  her  lips,  and  endeavoured  to  show,  by 
her  silence,  an  indifference  she  was  far  from  feeling.  She 
spoke  of  other  things;  but  it  seemed  that  the  chain  of  associa 
tion  connected  with  Linda  was  wound  round  every  object, 
however  remote,  in  the  negro's  mind,  and  drew  her  back  with 
irresistible  power. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  not  speak  of  these  things  to  a 
stranger," — at  length  she  said;  "  your  master  may  not 
like  it." 

"  Why,  everybody  knows  it,"  replied  Minta,  laughing : 
"  they  didn't  know  nothing  else,  for  a  long  time.  'Taint  no 
secret,  no  more  than  the  Bible  is.  If  'twas,  I  wouldn't  say 
nothing,  to  save  my  life." 

Julia,  having  satisfied  her  conscientious  scruples,  no  longer 
resisted  the  communicativeness  of  her  attendant,  and,  while 
the  dark  "  bower-maiden"  assisted  her  in  preparing  for  rest, 
she  yielded  her  ear  to  the  thrilling  story  of  Linda's  per 
secutions,  sufferings,  and  flight.  It  was  scarcely  possible 
for  even  the  exaggerating  imagination  of  a  negro  to  enhance 
the  romantic  interest  of  such  a  history,  and  Minta's  tongue 
grew  more  eloquent  as  the  attention  of  her  auditor  became 
more  riveted  and  intense.  She  prolonged  her  task,  brushing 
the  soft  luxuriance  of  Julia's  long,  fair  hair,  till  it  shone  like 
burnished  gold,  and  watching,  with  triumphant  delight,  the 
flush  of  excitement  dawning  on  her  pale  cheek,  at  a  narrative 
so  "  passing  strange,  so  wondrous  pitiful." 

When  Julia  retired  to  her  couch,  she  could  not  sleep.  She 
would  scarcely  have  felt  more  excited,  had  she  occupied  the 
blood-stained  chamber  of  Holyrood  Palace,  or  the  secret  bower 
of  the  fair  and  poisoned  Rosamond.  The  light  from  the  sink 
ing  blaze  of  the  chimney  flickered  on  the  walls,  making  fan 
tastic  shapes,  which  mingled  strangely  with  the  phantoms  of 
her  own  kindled  imagination.  The  image  of  the  terrible  step 
mother  stalked  round  her  bed,  fixing  on  her  those  hard  and 
stony  eyes,  that  sunk  into  her  soul  like  rocks  in  a  fountain's 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LIXDA.  19 

depths.  Then  Robert  Graham,  not  as  she  had  seen  him,  sub 
dued,  lofty,  and  serene,  but  in  his  indomitable  pride  and  fiery 
passions,  "  bright  as  the  sun,  and  terrible  as  an  army  with 
banners,"  flashed  upon  her  his  powerful  and  mysterious  eyes. 
Linda,  the  young  and  persecuted  orphan, — the  beautiful  heir 
ess,  so  wildly  and  romantically  beloved,  whose  burning  tear 
had  so  often  bathed  the  pillow  her  own  cheeks  now  pressed, 
and  whose  lonely  sighs  had  echoed  from  those  very  walls, — ap 
peared  embodied  before  her  in  a  form  of  more  than  mortal 
loveliness.  Even  in  her  dreams  the  same  images  pursued 
her,  so  distinctly  marked,  so  vividly  coloured,  her  spirit-eyes 
were  dazzled  and  wearied  by  their  straining  gaze. 

While  Julia  was  listening  with  a  fascinated  ear  to  the  wild 
romance  of  Robert's  youth,  he  sat  by  the  light-wood  blaze  at 
her  brother's  side,  who  called  up,  as  if  by  magic,  the  genial 
memories  of  their  college  life.  Both  these  young  men  pos 
sessed  in  an  eminent  degree  the  attributes  which  gain  ascend 
ancy  over  the  popular  mind,  hence  they  were  favourites  with 
their  classmates,  and  the  leaders  in  their  hours  of  relaxation 
and  amusement.  The  very  pride  and  passion  of  Robert's  cha 
racter,  his  recklessness,  fearlessness,  and  prodigality,  invested 
him  with  a  regality  and  power  which  swayed  them  like  a 
strong  wind.  A  spendthrift  of  time  and  talent  at  one  moment, 
he  hoarded  them  at  another  with  a  miser's  avarice.  If  he 
remained  too  long  at  the  convivial  feast,  his  lamp  was  sure  to 
mingle  its  flame  with  the  rays  of  the  dawning  day. 

11  Graham  will  fail  in  his  morning  recitation,"  was  often 
prophesied  by  those  who  had  revelled  the  preceding  evening 
in  the  lavishness  of  his  hospitality,  and  sparkled  in  the  bril 
liancy  of  his  wit.  But  it  was  never  so ;  the  fire  kindled  bj 
the  Promethean  torch  of  Aristides  was  never  extinguished, 
but  burned  an  undecaying  torch,  lighting  the  steps  of  ambi 
tion  to  the  Temple  of  Fame;  ambition,  born  of  love,  nurtured 
by  passion,  goaded  by  the  most  maddening  jealousy,  and 
upheld  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  most  determined  will 


20  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

But  perhaps  the  greatest  cause  of  his  overmastering  influ 
ence  was  the  incommunicativeness  of  his  nature,  the  combi 
nation  of  intellectual  frankness  with  the  most  guarded  close 
ness  and  mystery  of  the  heart.  He  never  talked  of  himself,  of 
his  hopes  or  wishes.  Even  to  Henry  Bellenden,  his  room 
companion  and  most  intimate  friend,  he  had  never  breathed 
the  name  of  Linda.  He  would  have  deemed  it  sacrilege  to 
her,  degradation  to  himself.  This  was  not  owing  so  much  to 
the  sacred  reverence  of  love,  as  to  the  dark  reserve  in  which 
he  wrapped  his  passionate  and  fiery  character. 

Henry  Bellenden,  the  representative  of  a  northern  city  in  that 
southern  institution,  was  as  different  from  Robert  Graham  as 
morning  is  from  night.  It  is  a  singular  circumstance  when  a 
northern  youth  is  sent  to  be  educated  at  a  southern  college;  but 
an  uncle  who  resided  in  Virginia,  within  the  shadow  of  Monti- 
cello's  classic  mount,  and  whom  he  was  visiting,  inspired  him 
with  an  ardent  desire  to  be  associated  with  southern  youth,  whose 
character  he  felt  to  be  congenial  with  his.  And  yet  he  was  most 
powerfully  attracted  by  qualities  entirely  opposite  to  his  own. 
Frank  and  communicative  himself,  he  admired  the  proud  reserve 
of  Robert's  heart  as  much  as  the  open  display  of  the  riches  of 
his  mind.  Of  a  most  sunny  and  unclouded  temper,  he  loved  to 
watch  the  clouds  that  often  darkened  Robert's,  waiting  for  the 
burst  of  sunshine  that  so  splendidly  illumined  them.  In  tho 
whole  course  of  their  college  life,  nothing  had  arisen  to  interrupt 
the  harmony  of  their  friendship.  Proud,  imperious,  and  pas 
sionate  as  Robert  then  was,  the  shadow  of  his  towering  passions 
never  fell  on  his  friend.  Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  the  convic 
tion  that  they  could  never  be  rivals,  that  "as  there  is  one  glory 
of  the  sun,  and  another  glory  of  the  moon,"  so  like  the  stars 
they  differed  from  each  other  in  glory.  Had  Henry  crossed 
his  path  in  love  or  fame,  he  would  have  felt  the  grapple  of  the 
iion  roused  from  his  lair;  but  in  their  diverging  destinies  no 
counter  interests  met,  no  selfish  motives  struggled.  They  had 
parted  friends,  but  the  correspondence,  commenced  at  first  with 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  21 

youthful  ardour,  had  died  away,  or  rather  it  had  been  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  vortex  of  Robert's  master  passion.  Now 
they  met  as  friends,  and  seated  side  by  side,  in  the  deep  qui 
etude  of  the  midnight  hour,  they  talked  of  bygone  hours,  and 
young  as  they  were,  wished  they  were  boys  once  more,  that 
hey  could  begin  life  anew. 

"And  you  are  not  married,  Graham/'  said  Henry,  after  a 
pause,  which  he  had  employed  in  perusing  the  downcast  coun 
tenance  of  his  friend:  "with  wealth  and  position  like  yours, 
with  none  to  control  or  direct  your  will,  I  am  surprised  that 
you  have  been  allowed  to  retain  the  gift  of  freedom." 

"I  shall  never  marry,"  replied  Robert,  without  lifting  his 
eyes  from  the  flames  on  which  they  had  been  steadfastly  fixed. 
"  I  shall  travel  through  the  wilderness  of  life  with  no  gentle 
hand  clasped  in  mine,  or  scattering  flowers  over  its  wintry 
waste.  Once  there  was  desolation  in  this  thought,  now  there 
is  peace.  The  fewer  ties  we  have  to  bind  us  to  earth,  the 
easier  our  transition  to  heaven." 

The  deep  feeling  with  which  these  words  were  uttered,  con 
vinced  Henry  that  they  came  from  the  heart  of  the  speaker. 
Could  it  be  that  one  so  splendidly  endowed,  both  by  nature 
and  fortune,  had  loved  in  vain?  Impossible.  Had  death 
blighted  the  blossoms  of  his  hope,  even  as  it  had  done  his  own  ? 
Had  he  been  driven  by  treachery  from  his  native  land  to 
India's  burning  clime?  These  questions,  which  in  a  cooler 
moment  he  would  have  repressed,  rushed  involuntarily  from 
his  lips. 

"I  cannot  detail  the  past,"  answered  Robert.  "It  would 
madden  me.  Enough,  that  I  have  loved,  so  vainly,  so  wildly, 
so  destructively,  that  life  was  wellnigh  the  sacrifice  at  the 
altar  of  passion.  But  from  the  ashes  of  unrequited  love  and 
lost  happiness  arose  a  purer,  holier  flame.  God  accepted  the 
offering  of  this  rejected  heart,  and  to  him  I  have  devoted  my 
blighted  youth,  my  energies,  my  wealth,  my  influence.  I  have 
adopted  as  my  brothers  and  sisters  the  fallen  sons  and  daugh 


ZZ  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

ters  of  humanity.  The  more  deeply  I  foci  the  duties  and 
responsibilities  involved  in  this  great  brotherhood,  the  more 
sensible  I  am  of  my  own  divine  affiliation,  of  my  unutterable 
debt  to  Him  who  raised  me  from  the  moral  degradation  in 
which  my  soul  was  plunged,  and  received  me  as  a  ministering 
servant  at  his  altar." 

The  eyes  of  Kobert,  now  raised  and  fixed  upon  the  face  of 
Henry,  beamed  with  earnest  truth  and  exalted  fervour. 
Henry  grasped  his  hand  without  speaking.  Compassion, 
sympathy,  admiration,  and  veneration,  all  swelled  his  heart, 
and  alternately  triumphed  over  each  other. 

"  And  you,  my  friend/'  said  Kobert;  " sympathy  so  deep 
must  be  born  of  experience, — have  you  been  happy  ?" 

11 1  have  known  one  year  of  happiness,  followed  by  a  night 
of  sorrow.  I  have  loved,  wedded,  and  been  widowed,  since  last 
we  met." 

"  You  !  with  that  cloudless  brow — that  sunny  countenance  ! 
Impossible  1" 

"  It  is  even  so.  My  nature  is  so  elastic,  it  rebounds  from 
the  pressure  of  grief  with  a  resilience  that  is  almost  miracu 
lous.  There  was  a  time  when  the  world  seemed  to  me  a  dun 
geon  of  despair;  but  Hope  smiled  through  the  prison-bars, 
whispering  of  man's  goodness  and  God's  mercy,  and  told  me  I 
was  an  ingrate  and  a  rebel.  Then  I  walked  forth  under  the 
blue  sky  and  the  warm  sunshine,  and  felt  the  beauty  and 
warmth  sink  into  my  softened  heart.  I  was  comforted.  And 
now  memory  and  hope  meet  as  friends,  and  bless  and  hallow 
each  other." 

"Strange,"  said  Robert,  with  impressive  emphasis,  "that 
one  can  be  deeply  wounded,  yet  wear  no  print  of  the  scars ! 
i7ou  will  be  happy  again.  Earth  has  many  joys  in  reserve  for 
you, — joys  that  will  be  more  precious  for  the  remembrance 
of  past  sorrows." 

"And  yr>u,  too,  Graham.  We  are  both  equally  young,  but 
equ-il  only  in  youth  In  all  other  respects  you  have  the  ad- 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  23 

vantage  of  me;  and  if /am  destined  to  enjoy  happiness  once 
more,  you  Should  look  forward  to  a  double  portion." 

Thus  the  two  friends  continued  to  converse,  till  the  blaze  in 
the  chimney  died  away,  leaving  a  bed  of  glowing  coals,  and 
the  glowing  coals  faded  and  crumbled  into  dying  embers,  and 
cold,  gray  ashes. 

Henry,  yielding  to  the  natural  frankness  of  his  nature,  tolu 
the  whole  story  of  his  youthful  love  and  early  bereavement. 
He  could  tell  it,  with  a  calm,  though  subdued  voice,  a  serene, 
though  serious  eye.  He  could  even  smile  at  the  recollection 
of  departed  joys.  It  is  true,  they  were  faded  flowers,  but 
they  would  bloom  again.  There  was  nothing  peculiar  in  the 
history.  A  young  girl,  fair,  delicate,  and  fragile,  like  his 
sister,  but  gifted  with  rare  accomplishments  and  brilliant 
genius,  was  betrothed  to  him  soon  after  he  left  college.  Even 
then  there  was  a  prophetic  rose  on  her  cheek ;  that  deep, 
bright  rose,  the  signet-seal  of  consumption.  After  one  short 
year  of  wedded  life  she  passed  away,  and  he  was  left  alone. 
His  favourite  sister,  Julia,  gave  indications  of  the  same  fatal 
malady, — the  flitting  colour,  the  quick,  panting  breath,  the 
occasional,  short,  dry  cough.  He  had  hastened  to  bear  her 
from  the  "  rigid  North" — before  the  clutch  of  the  destroyer 
had  fastened  on  her  heart. 

Whither  was  he  bearing  her  ?  He  had  thought  of  St.  Au 
gustine  when  he  left  home ;  some  location  in  the  land  of  flow 
ers,  where  the  gales  were  soft  and  bland,  and  the  air  played 
gently  on  frail  and  delicate  lungs.  He  wished  to  consult  his 
friend  j  for  he  was  very  much  like  a  bark  launched  on  an  un 
known  stream,  waiting  for  the  first  favouring  breeze  to  waft  it 
to  a  safe  haven,  careless  where  it  might  be. 

Robert  listened  and  meditated.  He  thought  of  Louisiana, 
of  Linda's  fair,  smiling  home,  embosomed  in  groves  of 
oranges  and  bowers  of  roses.  How  cordially  would  she  wel 
come  Henry's  gentle  sister  !  how  kindly  would  she  minister  to 


24  ROBERT    GRAHAM  : 

the  fair  young  invalid  !  Where  could  the  Northern  stranger 
find  a  lovelier  resting  place  ? 

"  Remain  with  me  awhile,"  said  he,  "  and  I  will  accompany 
you  to  a  spot  where  your  sister  can  realize  her  fairest  dreams 
of  our  Southern  land.  Having  just  returned,  after  a  long  ab 
sence,  duty  chains  me  here  for  a  short  time.  I  have  a  large 
plantation,  and  many  slaves  committed  to  my  care, — whose 
interests  are  so  interwoven  with  my  own,  that  I  cannot  neglect 
the  one  without  endangering  the  other.  As  I  expect  to  render 
an  account  of  my  stewardship,  I  feel  this  responsibility  very 
deeply.  It  called  me  back,  for  a  time,  from  labours  more 
remote,  and  gave  me  an  abundant  reason  for  leaving  the  field, 
whitened  for  the  harvest,  which  the  reaping  angels  are  gather 
ing  in.  Remain  with  me  awhile,  and  I  will  be  your  guide 
and  companion.  It  is  the  home  of  my  own  step-sister  to 
which  I  invite  you,  and  to  which  I  pledge  you  a  true  and 
heart-warm  welcome." 

"  A  thousand  thanks !"  exclaimed  Henry,  enthusiastically. 
"This  is  beyond  my  most  sanguine  hopes.  Remain  !  yes — I 
would  stay  a  hundred  years,  with  such  a  prospect.  A  step 
sister  !  I  never  knew  you  had  one,  Graham.  Poor  little 
Julia  !  how  she  will  rejoice  in  this  arrangement !  She  has 
such  a  dread  of  strangers  I" 

The  next  morning,  when  he  met  Julia  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  he  mentioned  the  propositions  of  Robert,  expecting  it 
would  meet  her  joyful  concurrence.  He  was  surprised  at  the 
manner  in  which  she  received  it.  When  he  spoke  of  "  the 
step-sister,"  to  whose  beautiful  home  they  were  so  cordially 
invited,  she  started,  and  turned  her  eyes  toward  Robert 
quickly  and  earnestly  \  then  withdrawing  them,  a  deepening 
blush  suffused  her  face.  The  history  narrated  by  Minta, 
which  had  peopled  her  dreams  with  such  vivid  images,  all 
seemed  concentrated  in  the  name  of  step-sister;  and  the 
thought  of  being  domesticated  with  the  hero  and  heroine  of 
such  a  thrilling  romance  almost  set  her  young  brain  on  fire. 


A    SEQUEL   TO    LINDA.  25 

Robert,  unconscious  of  the  cause  of  her  earnest  glance,  and 
the  embarrassment  which  succeeded,  felt  his  own  face  redden, 
as  it  always  did  when  he  knew  himself  an  object  of  scrutiny 
or  curiosity. 

"I  see  how  it  is,"  cried  Henry,  laughing:  "my  little  fas- 
•idious  sister  thinks  it  will  not  do  for  her  to  remain  as  the 
uest  of  a  handsome  young  gentleman,  who  has  neither  wife, 
mother,  nor  sister,  to  assist  him  in  bestowing  the  honours  of 
hospitality.  I  did  not  think  of  that.  But  methinks  the 
presence  of  her  wise  and  venerable  brother  will  make  every 
thing  very  right  and  proper." 

"  Indeed,  I  think  we  had  better  go,"  said  Julia,  glad  of  the 
interpretation  her  brother  had  given  of  her  embarrassment. 
"  Pleasant  as  it  would  be  to  continue  our  journey  under  such 
auspices,  I  fear  our  prolonged  stay  would  be  an  intrusion  on 
the  duties  of  our  host." 

"  How  much  more  considerate  girls  are  than  boys  !"  ex 
claimed  Henry.  tl  I  never  thought  of  that,  either.  We  must 
be  in  the  way — that  is,  she  must.  As  for  myself,  I  can  roam 
over  the  plantation,  plunge  with  you  in  the  depths  of  the 
pine  woods,  and  make  myself  familiar  with  all  the  mysteries 
of  Southern  life.  But  what  can  she  do  ?" 

"If  Miss  Bellenden  will  consent  to  remain,"  said  Robert, 
"I  will  obviate  every  difficulty  of  that  kind.  Our  neighbour, 
Mr.  Marshall,  one  of  our  best  friends,  has  a  daughter,  who 
will  gladly  be  her  companion  during  her  stay.  I  will  send  an 
immediate  invitation;  and  perhaps  even  you,  Bellenden," 
added  he,  turning  to  Henry  with  a  smile,  "  may  find  a  charm 
*n  her  society,  to  relieve  the  gloom  and  monotony  of  Pine 
Grove." 

That  smile  !  Julia  felt  illuminated  by  it.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  seen  a  smile  on  the  pensive  features  of  Robert. 
Never  had  she  beheld  one  which  had  such  an  irradiating  in- 
ffuence  on  the  human  countenance.  She  wondered  why  he 
smiled  so  seldom,  when  it  made  him  look  so  pre-eminently 


26  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

handsome.  She  wondered  how  Linda  could  have  resisted  its 
fascination. 

"  Then  it  is  decided/'  said  Robert. 

"The  only  objection  which  Julia  could  possibly  urge  being 
removed/'  replied  Henry,  "  I  think  I  may  say,  yes." 

Thus  they  became  the  guests  of  the  young  master  of  Pine 
Grove,  whose  evergreen  shades  were  once  more  animated  by 
the  presence  of  beauty  and  youth. 

Nora  Marshall  had  been,  though  somewhat  younger,  the 
companion  of  Linda's  childhood,  but  they  were  educated  at 
different  schools,  and  Linda's  after  destiny  separated  her  from 
all  the  associations  of  her  childish  years.  Nora  was  sent  to  a 
Northern  institution,  and  her  elastic  spirit,  blooming  health, 
and  inexhaustible  energy  assimilated  well  to  the  life-giving, 
exhilarating  elements  around  her. 

It  is  not  possible  for  a  stronger  contrast  to  exist  than  was 
presented  in  the  person  and  character  of  Nora  Marshall  and 
Julia  Bellenden.  They  each  seemed  the  personification  of 
their  opposite  latitudes.  A  stranger  would  believe  that  he 
beheld  in  the  full,  rounded,  charmingly-developed  figure  of 
Nora,  her  sparkling,  flashing,  quick-glancing,  dark  eyes,  the 
purplish  blackness  of  her  thick  clustering  hair,  and  the  bril 
liant  roses  of  her  cheeks,  a  representative  of  the  vigorous  and 
blooming  North.  And  in  the  slight  and  delicate  form  of 
Julia,  the  unsullied  and  infantine  fairness  of  her  complexion, 
the  soft  luxuriance  of  her  light  amber  hair,  and  the  clear  sap 
phire  of  her  gentle  eyes,  an  emblem  of  the  mild  and  sunny 
South. 

It  might  almost  be  said  of  Nora  that  she  "  rioted  in  the 
madness  of  superfluous  health  /'  for  she  seemed  incapable  of 
fatigue,  as  she  was  insensible  to  fear.  The  flow  of  her  spirits 
was  as  full  and  unpausing  as  the  ocean's  waves  j  her  voice 
clear  and  resonant-  as  the  tones  of  a  silver  bell  stirred  to 
gladden  life's  sluggish  current  of  thought;  and  her  laugh  re 
minded  one  of  the  singing  of  many  waters,  as  they  sparkle  in 


A   SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  27 

the  sunshine.     If  ever  one  revelled  in  the  joy  of  motion,  it 

was  Nora.     How  she  ever  remained  still  in  school  was  an 

inscrutable   mystery.       Where   others    walked,    she   danced; 

through  the  yard,  across  the  hall,  up  the  stairs,  she  danced 

and  warbled  too,  as  if  life  were  a  ball-room — a  singing  gallery 

-a  perfect  sans  souci.     Gay,  dashing,  merry  Nora  Marshall ! 

Tie  old  negroes  would  shake  their  heads  as  she  sparkled  in 

their  midst,  and  say — 

"  Poor  child — she's  never  seen  trouble  yet — but  it  will 
come,  as  sure  as  she's  born." 

The  prophet  voice  which  declared  "that  man  is  born  to 
trouble  as  the  sparks  fly  upward,"  finds  its  echo  in  every 
human  heart,  whether  darkened  by  ignorance  or  enlightened 
by  knowledge ;  and  as  in  a  bright,  cloudless,  glorious  summer 
day,  we  look  anxiously  for  the  evening  cloud,  beyond  the  exu 
berance  and  fearlessness  of  youthful  gayety  we  perceive  the 
advancing  shadows  of  life. 

Julia  was  elastic,  impulsive,  but  never  gay.  Gayety  is 
seldom  the  accompaniment  of  extreme  delicacy  of  constitution. 
The  languid  pulse  does  not  prompt  the  bounding  step  or 
the  ringing  laugh.  She  was  all  grace  and  refinement  and 
sensibility,  the  same  in  her  hours  of  retirement  as  in  the 
social  circle.  Her  thoughts  flitted  through  her  mind,  pure  as 
the  white  cloud  that  floats  over  the  ethereal  blue. 

"  She  looks  too  good  for  this  world,"  said  experience, 
gazing  on  her  youth — "  she's  not  destined  for  a  long  life." 

"I  shall  admire  her,  but  I  fear  I  shall  not  love  her;" 
thought  Julia,  when  she  met  for  the  first  time  the  bright 
flashing  glance  of  Nora. 

"  She  is  a  pretty,  gentle  creature,"  thought  Nora,  smiling  at 
Julia's  blushing  timidity,  "  but  I  fear  she  lacks  spirit — she 
may  win  love,  but  not  admiration." 

"  She's  handsome,  brilliant,  spirited,"  thought  Henry,  when 
he  made  his  first  bow  to  Nora,  "  but  too  dashing  and  independ 
ent  for  me.  She  may  amuse  and  excite,  but  never  interest." 


28  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"  He  seems  very  intellectual,  very  animated,"  thought  Nora, 
when  introduced  to  Henry  Bellenden,  "  but  he  is  too  slight, 
too  feminine,  to  suit  my  taste.  I  never  could  tolerate  a  gen 
tleman  under  six  feet." 

So  much  for  first  impressions  ! 

The  first  day  which  Julia  passed  with  her  new  acquaintance 
was  not  a  happy  one;  she  was  fatigued,  oppressed,  almost 
annihilated  by  the  vehemence  of  Nora's  convivial  spirits.  She 
felt  very  much  as  if  a  young  colt  had  broken  into  the  house, 
and  that  there  was  danger  in  its  wild  antics.  The  truth  was, 
Nora  led  rather  a  lonely  life,  having  few  neighbours,  no  sister 
or  youthful  companion  on  whom  her  sparkling  spirits  could 
radiate  with  natural  brightness.  She  was  enchanted  on  the 
reception  of  Robert's  invitation,  and  came,  like  a  bottle  of 
champagne,  ready  to  effervesce  in  a  thousand  exhilarating 
diamonds.  She  had  seen  but  very  little  of  the  stately  Robert 
since  a  fellow  pupil  with  him  at  the  school  of  Aristides  Long- 
wood.  Then  she  defied  and  tormented  him,  and  laughed  at 
the  castigations  for  which  the  gentle  Linda  wept.  As  chil 
dren,  they  were  sworn  enemies;  and  though  the  animosities 
of  childhood  are  soon  forgotten  and  sometimes  converted  into 
genuine  friendships,  no  youthful  intercourse  had  given  rise 
to  warmer  feelings.  Robert  never  visited,  and  the  incidents 
of  his  dark  and  stormy  career,  which  lost  nothing  by  the 
tongue  of  rumour,  were  not  calculated  to  propitiate  dislike  or 
to  inspire  regard.  She  had  no  faith  in  the  stability  of  his 
new  principles ;  even  his  departure  to  India  was  considered 
by  her  a  splendid  meteoric  flight,  a  modern  Hegira,  to  excite 
the  wonder  and  the  admiration  of  the  gazing  world.  He  was 
almost  as  much  a  stranger  to  her,  now,  as  Henry  and  Julia, 
and  she  rejoiced  in  the  opportunity  of  gratifying  her  curiosity, 
as  well  as  manifesting  her  skepticisms  in  his  saintliness  and 
devotion. 

"  He  is  grand,  magnificent,  beautiful,"  said  she  to  herself, 
as  he  greeted  her  with  the  kindness  of  an  old  friend,  showing 


A    SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  29 

an  entire  oblivion  of  all  childish  skirmishes ;  "  but  he  need 
not  think  to  awe  me  with  his  stupendous  virtue ;  I  will  show 
him  there  is  one  who  will  dare  to  laugh,  even  under  the 
shadow  of  his  olympian  brows. " 

Henry  went  abroad  with  Robert,  and  Julia  was  left  alone 
with  her  vivid  companion.  Though  Nora  had  really  all  the 
warmth  of  heart  usually  the  accompaniment  of  high  spirits, 
as  she  had  never  known  a  day's  sickness,  she  could  not  sym 
pathize  in  the  languor  which  often  made  Julia  seek  the  downy 
chair  and  the  luxurious  sofa.  If  any  were  sick  enough  to  be 
confined  to  their  bed,  suffering  from  some  manifest  cause,  and 
requiring  nursing  care,  Nora  would  give  the  nightly  watching 
and  the  daily  ministration  with  all  the  untiring  energy  of  her 
nature ;  but  when  they  were  well  enough  to  sit,  to  walk,  and 
eat,  and  appear  as  other  people  did,  she  could  not  conceive  of 
their  being  sick.  She  thought  all  they  required  was  the  exer 
cise  of  their  own  willy  to  be  as  full  of  buoyant,  exulting  life  as 
herself. 

She  looked  upon  Julia  as  a  little,  tender  creature,  who  had 
been  petted  and  nursed  almost  to  death,  and  who  required 
only  her  own  invigorating  influence  to  obtain  similar  bloom 
and  spirit. 

"  Come,"  said  she,  throwing  one  arm  around  Julia's  waist, 
and  lifting  her  with  as  little  effort  as  she  would  blow  a  feather 
in  the  wind — "  come,  you  must  not  sit  moping  in  the  house, 
like  a  caged  bird.  Take  a  run  with  me  in  the  open  air;  it 
will  bring  the  blood  to  your  cheeks,  and  joy  to  your  heart. 
Only  think  you  are  strong,  and  it  will  make  you  so." 

Before  Julia  was  aware,  she  was  whirled  out  into  the  yard, 
and  one  of  the  most  delicious  breezes  she  had  ever  felt  blew 
freshly  and  blandly  on  her  cheeks.  She  could  not  keep  up 
with  the  rapid  motions  and  volant  steps  of  Nora;  but  her 
light  feet  seemed  borne  up  by  the  elasticity  of  the  atmosphert,, 
and  the  languid  current  of  her  veins  quickened  with  new  life. 
She  admired  the  grandeur  of  the  live-oaks — those  high-priests 
20 


30  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

of  the  forest,  in  their  sacerdotal  mantles  of  moss,  sweeping  in 
the  gale — trees,  such  as  she  had  never  seen  in  her  North 
ern  clime.  She  stood  under  their  shadow  with  feelings  of 
reverence  and  awe.  as  if  some  temple-arch  were  bending 
over  her,  thinking  what  a  magnificent  place  it  was  to  wor- 
hip  God, — when  Nora,  observing  her  grave  and  devout  coun- 
enance,  which  struck  her  as  exceedingly  out  of  place,  sprang 
up,  caught  a  bough  in  her  hand  to  which  a  detached  garland 
of  dead  moss  was  hanging,  and,  tearing  it  off,  she  tossed  it 
over  Julia's  head  and  upturned  face,  sprinkling  her  with  the 
dust  of  the  dry  and  brittle  lace-work. 

"What  a  pretty  nun  you  would  make!"  exclaimed  she; 
while  Julia,  smiling,  though  not  particularly  pleased  at  such  a 
rude  interruption  to  her  reverential  emotions,  quietly  released 
herself  from  the  gray  old  veil.  The  dust,  however,  still  lin 
gered  in  her  eyes,  making  her  shed  involuntary  tears.  Nora 
laughed  excessively,  without  dreaming  she  had  inflicted  pain, 
and,  skipping  down  a  path  winding  along  back  of  the  house, 
she  called  on  Julia  to  follow.  This  path,  shaded  on  each  side  by 
evergreen  shrubbery,  was  a  cool  and  delightful  avenue  in  the 
sultriness  of  a  summer's  day.  Now,  the  dews  of  an  autumnal 
morning  lingered  on  the  ground,  and  Julia  would  gladly  have 
avoided  the  dampness;  but  she  feared  the  ridicule  of  Nora, 
and  preferred  exposing  herself  to  an  atmosphere  which  might 
endanger  her  health,  rather  than  meet  the  mocking  glance 
of  her  bright,  dark  eye.  At  the  termination  of  this  path,  a 
clear,  cold,  sparkling  spring  came  gushing  and  bubbling  from 
a  moss-covered  rock,  into  a  basin  scooped  out  to  receive  it. 
The  water  constantly  dripped  over  the  edge  of  the  basin,  form 
ing  a  little  pool  around  it,  and  singing  all  the  time  at  its  cool, 
monotonous  work.  A  smooth,  white  gourd  lay  on  a  bench  by 
the  reservoir,  and  a  rustic  settee,  constructed  of  interlaced 
oaken  boughs,  was  placed  on  the  opposite  side. 

"  How  beautiful  I"  exclaimed  Julia,  taking  the  gourd,  and 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  31 

filling  it  brimfull  of  water;  "I  never  tasted  any  thing  so  deli- 
ciously  cold  and  pure/' 

While  bending  her  head  over  the  gourd,  Nora,  who  "seemed 
to  watch  a  time  to  sin,"  stole  softly  behind  her,  and  giving 
her  elbow  a  sudden  jerk,  splashed  the  water  over  her  head. 
Julia,  whose  footing  was  not  very  secure  on  the  edge  of  the 
fountain,  was  precipitated  forward,  so  that  she  stood  ankle- 
deep  in  water.  In  endeavouring  to  save  herself  from  falling, 
she  caught  hold  of  the  side  of  the  rocky  basin, — while  hex 
hair,  loosened  from  her  comb,  fell  in  liberated  waves  over  her 
shoulders,  and  floated  like  lotus  leaves  on  the  surface  of  the 
fountain. 

"Oh!  thou  beautiful  mermaid,"  cried  Nora,  clapping  her 
hands  in  genuine  admiration ;  "  make  a  looking-glass  of  the 
water,  and  see  how  charming  you  look  I" 

Julia  did  not  smile  at  this  practical  joke.  The  contact  of 
the-  cold  water  chilled  her,  and  she  did  not  like  to  be  so  rudely 
treated.  She  had  always  been  carefully  guarded  from  cold,  and 
now  she  was  forced  into  a  bed  of  water,  cold  as  ice,  gurgling 
round  her  feet;  the  bottom  of  her  dress  saturated,  and  her 
hair  dripping  over  her  bosom.  A  fit  of  coughing,  drowned  in 
Nora's  gushing  laughter,  brought  a  bright  colour  to  her 
cheeks,  but  she  shivered  and  trembled. 

"  Come,"  said  Nora,  fearing  she  had  suffered  her  frolic- 
loving  spirit  to  carry  her  rather  too  far,  "  don't  be  angry  with 
me,  and  I  will  behave  better  next  time.  Come,  let  me  help 
you  out." 

Julia  turned  from  her,  and,  gathering  up  her  wet  robes, 
attempted  to  jump  out  unassisted :  she  was  really  afraid  of 
the  wild  girl,  and  feared  to  trust  herself  in  her  hands.  As 
she  was  in  the  act  of  springing  out,  the  pebbles  turned  under 
.  her  foot,  and  twisted  her  ankle.  With  a  low  shriek  of  pain, 
she  fell  forward,  and  Nora  beheld  her  with  dismay. 

"  Oh !  what  is  the  matter,  Julia !"  she  exclaimed,  stooping 
down,  and  raising  her  in  her  arms.  "  How  are  you  hurt,  you 


32  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

poor,  persecuted  lambkin?  Tell  me  what  I  have  done.  I 
did  not  mean  to  hurt  you;  indeed,  I  did  not/' 

"  I  fear  I  have  sprained  my  ankle,"  said  Julia,  faintly,  her 
colour  going  out,  and  a  wan  hue  stealing  over  her  face;  "  but 
do  not  be  distressed.  It  is  a  trifle." 

"A  trifle!"  cried  Nora,  frightened  at  the  deadly  pallor  of 
her  countenance,  and  struck  with  remorse  for  her  reckless 
folly.  Catching  her  up  in  her  arms,  she  flew  up  the  path, 
across  the  yard,  over  the  threshold,  and  into  the  house  with 
the  bound  of  the  deer. 

"  Quick,  quick !"  she  cried  to  the  astonished  negroes  whom 
she  encountered  in  the  hall ;"  follow  me  to  her  room.  Bring 
hartshorn, — cologne, — camphor, — cold  water, — hot  water, — 
every  thing — to  keep  her  from  fainting.  Make  haste !  Are 
you  all  stocks  and  stones?  Don't  you  see  I've  killed  her?" 

"  No,  no,"  said  Julia;  "  I  am  not  killed,  only  hurt.  Just 
lay  me  down  on  the  sofa,  and  I  shall  be  easier." 

Transported  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  for  she  thought  she 
had  fainted,  as  she  lay  with  her  eyes  closed,  and  looked  so 
deadly  pale, — Nora  laid  her  down  on  a  sofa  in  her  chamber, 
and  casting  herself  on  her  knees  before  her,  half-smothered  her 
with  caresses,  while  the  tears  fell  fast  from  her  bright,  penitent- 
looking  eyes. 

"  Pray,  forgive  me,"  she  cried;  "  though  I  cannot,  will  not 
forgive  myself.  I  have  been  so  frightened — oh,  so  frightened ! 
I  hardly  knew  how  I  reached  the  house.  Oh,  dear!  I  really 
fear  I  shall  be  the  death  of  somebody  yet,  rude  monster  that 
I  am." 

Julia  assured  her,  in  the  gentlest  manner,  of  her  entire  for 
giveness,  declaring  that  the  sprain  was  owing  to  her  own  per- 
verseness  in  refusing  her  offered  assistance.  One  of  the  negro 
women  was  employed  in  the  mean  time  in  drawing  the  shoe 
and  stocking  from  her  swollen  foot  and  ankle,  and  applying 
cold  bandages. 

"  Oh;  what  a  shame !"  exclaimed  Nora;  her  grief  and  self- 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  33 

condemnation  bursting  out  afresh  at  the  sight  of  the  injury 
she  had  unwittingly  caused  to  that  J'ttle  fairy  foot;  "I  have 
made  a  prisoner  of  you, — a  Chinese  golden  lily.  You  will 
not  be  able  to  walk  a  step  for  Heaven  knows  how  long !" 

"Do  not,  do  not,  I  pray  you,  blame  yourself  so  much," 
said  Julia,  gently  drawing  Nora's  hand  to  her  lips.  "It  was 
such  a  trifle,  I  am  almost  ashamed  that  it  should  have  affected 
me  so  seriously.  But  it  is  astonishing  how  little  I  can  bear. 
The  slightest  shock  sometimes  produces  a  fainting-fit — even  the 
sight  of  flowing  blood.  How  could  you  have  imagined  such  a 
result?" 

"But  I  need  not  have  been  such  a  rude  wretch,  such  a 
rough,  Greenland  bear.  I  do  not  know  what  impelled  me. 
The  impulse  was  as  quick  and  unpremeditated  as  a  flash  of 
lightning.  I  believe  I  have  two  beings  in  one ;  one  always 
sinning,  the  other  mourning  over  the  sins,  and  trying  to  atone 
for  them.  You,  poor  little  gentle  lamb,  how  you  must  hate 
me!" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Julia,  smiling,  "I  thought  a  little  while 
ago — "  She  paused,  and  the  colour  came  into  her  cheek. 

"  What  did  you  think  ?  that  I  was  the  most  disagreeable, 
unfeeling,  unfeminine  hoyden  that  you  ever  saw?  I  know 
you  did.  Say  it,  for  I  deserve  it.  Yet  I  would  not  have  you 
think  me  the  two  last.  Disagreeable  I  may  be,  but  really 
unfeeling  and  unfeminine,  I  should  be  grieved  to  have  you 
think  me." 

" Nay,  I  do  not  think  so.  How  can  I  think  so  now?  I  only 
thought,  I  only  feared  we  could  not  harmonize;  that  you,  so 
bright,  so  blooming,  so  rejoicing  in  health,  could  not  sympathize 
with  such  a  frail  young  thing  as  I  am.  Perhaps  you  do  not 
know  that  I  came  to  your  beautiful  clime  in  search  of  health, 
or  rather  to  avoid  the  cold  blasts  of  a  Northern  winter.  Sister 
Mary,  my  brother's  lovely  wife,  died  of  consumption,  and  my 
friends  feared  for  me  the  same  premature  doom." 

"  Not  this  brother's  wife  ?"  exclaimed  Nora. 


34  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

''Yes.  Henry  married  a  year  after  he  left  college,  even 
before  he  had  completed  his  studies  as  a  lawyer,  and  in  one 
short  year  his  beautiful  young  wife  was  laid  in  the  grave.  It 
is  just  two  years  since,  or  will  be  the  coming  winter." 

"Why,  he  looks  so  boyishly  young!"  cried  Nora,  "so 
sunny-browed,  so  light-hearted — I  cannot  realize  the  truth  of 
your  words.  A  widower !  how  strange !  I  thought  him  a 
mere  youth!" 

"He  is  young,  about  the  age  of  Mr.  Graham,  I  believe. 
They  were  classmates  in  college,  you  know." 

"Ah!  Robert  Graham  looks  like  a  man!  so  tall,  so  stately, 
with  those  magnificent  eyes  and  that  midnight-looking  hair. 
What  a  boy  he  was  !  Good  heavens,  what  a  boy !  He  was 
always  handsome,  but  such  strong  passions;  and  then  his 
mother !  such  a  woman.  No,  she  was  not  a  woman.  She  was 
a  fiend,  a  dragon,  a  female  Lucifer.  How  she  treated  poor, 
darling  Linda.  Oh !  I  must  tell  you  of  that." 

In  her  own  peculiar,  wild,  rambling  manner,  she  related  to 
Julia  the  history  which  she  had  already  heard  from  Minta's 
eager  tongue.  She  listened  with  increasing  interest,  and  a 
belief  in  its  truth  which  she  had  not  been  able  to  accord  to 
Miuta's  first-told  tale.  Thus  corroborated,  it  assumed  the 
force  of  certainty,  glowing  with  the  colours  of  the  most  exalted 
romance. 

The  evening  found  Julia  quite  renovated,  reclining  on  the 
parlour  sofa  d  la  sultance,  and  Nora  seated  on  a  footstool  at 
her  side. 

"  Do  not  tell  your  brother  what  a  savage  I  am,"  cried  Nora, 
as  Robert  and  Henry  entered  the  parlour  together.  "  He  may 
not  forgive  me  as  sweetly  as  you  have  done.  I  am  on  my 
good  behaviour  now,  and  am  going  to  try  if  I  cannot  be  as 
gentle  and  meek  as  you  are.  If  you  chance  to  see  the  lion's 
foot  under  tin;  fleece  of  the  lamb,  do  not  betray  me." 

Julia  promised,  but  it  was  not  ten  minutes  before  Nora 
betrayed  herself,  with  unconscious  ingenuousness.  She  spoke 


A   SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  35 

however  of  her  rudeness  with  so  much  candour,  and  blamed 
herself  with  so  much  sincerity  and  severity,  it  was  impossible 
to  exercise  a  harsh  judgment  upon  her,  especially  when  the 
culprit  was  as  brilliantly  handsome  as  Nora  was  this  evening. 
The  self-restraint  she  imposed  upon  herself,  in  consequence  of 
her  determination  to  be  good,  gave  the  grace  of  propriety  to 
her  often  too  reckless  manners,  and  then  she  was  so  kind,  so 
tender  to  Julia !  Henry  looked  upon  her  with  admiring;  grati 
tude,  when  he  saw  her  gathering  all  the  cushions  in  the  room, 
to  make  a  kind  of  luxurious  guard  around  her,  drawing  a  foot 
stool  beneath  her  feet,  and  watching  her  as  carefully  as  a 
mother  would  a  child. 

Yet  who  could  help  being  kind  to  Julia?  So  gentle,  so  fair, 
so  innocent  and  fragile !  As  she  half  reclined  on  the  sofa,  in 
her  simple,  white,  childish-looking  dress,  confined  round  the 
waist  by  a  blue  riband,  about  the  colour  of  her  eyes — those  soft, 
appealing,  loving  eyes,  she  reminded  one  of  the  angels  of 
Raphael.  The  same,  lovely,  flowing  contour  defined  her 
youthful  face,  the  same  fair,  golden  hair  shed  a  pale  glory  over 
the  spotless  brow. 

Robert  looked  upon  her,  and  thought  of  Linda.  Not  that 
she  resembled  her,  only  as  one  beautiful  being  resembles 
another.  Where  she  now  was,  Linda  had  often  been,  and  the 
remembrance  imparted  a  softness  and  sensibility  to  his  counte 
nance  of  which  he  was  not  aware.  He  felt  interested  in  her 
as  the  sister  of  his  friend.  He  pitied  her,  with  such  a  blight 
hovering  over  her  youth;  and  more  than  all,  he  was  drawn 
toward  her,  as  the  child  of  his  own  heavenly  Father,  as  united 
to  him  by  the  ties  of  a  divine  consanguinity.  With  these 
blended  emotions  warming  his  heart,  he  moved  his  chair  close 
to  the  sofa  where  she  reclined,  and  Julia,  looking  up  with 
bashful  pleasure,  not  unmingled  with  trepidation,  met  for  the 
first  time  the  full  glance  of  his  eyes.  We  have  often  spoken 
of  the  eyes  of  Robert,  but  it  was  only  those  who  met  their  glance 
as  Julia  did,  who  could  realize  their  wondrous  power.  You 


36  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

Lave  seen  some  deep  stream  at  midnight,  dark  in  its  silent 
depths  of  shade,  illumined  by  the  distant  starlight;  you  have 
seen  a  black  storm-cloud  rifted  by  lightning,  and  a  torch  flash 
ing  over  a  dark,  fathomless  abyss.  The  eyes  of  Robert,  in 
moments  of  strong  excitement,  reminded  one  of  all  these;  and 
when  animated  as  they  now  were,  with  their  best  and  purest 
expression,  of  lamps,  burning  before  some  holy  shrine,  through 
the  misty  incense  of  the  frankincense  and  myrrh;  of  beacons, 
shining  over  the  tempestuous  billows  of 

"  Stars  on  eternity's  ocean." 

Julia  felt  the  blood  flow  with  painful  rapidity  and  warmth 
to  her  pale  cheek,  and  she  blushed  still  more  deeply  at  this 
consciousness.  She  felt  guilty  for  having  listened  to  the  his 
tory  of  his  life,  for  having  been  told  the  secrets  of  his  heart.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  lie  must  know  it.  He  looked  as  if  he  had 
the  power  to  read  things  unsearchable  and  unknown;  and  she 
was  so  transparent  in  her  innocence  and  simplicity,  how  could 
he  help  reading  her? 

Henry  sat  by  Nora,  in  an  opposite  part  of  the  room, 
engaged  in  an  exceedingly  animated  conversation,  made  up  of 
brilliant  nonsense,  sportive  wit,  and  a  little  sound,  rational 
wisdom. 

Robert,  who  had  neither  taste  nor  talent  now  for  brilliant 
nonsense,  talked  to  Julia  in  a  lower,  deeper  tone,  of  what  he 
thought  would  most  interest  her  feelings  and  relieve  her  bash- 
fulness.  He  led  her  on  to  describe  her  Northern  home,  hei 
native  scenes,  so  kindly  and  gently,  that  she  found  herself,  to 
her  own  unutterable  astonishment,  speaking  without  embar 
rassment,  and  looking  up  without  blushing  to  this  awe-inspiring 
young  man. 

She  even  ventured  to  question  him  of  his  travels  in  foreign 
lands,  and  then  she  discovered  how  eloquent,  how  fascinating 
he  could  be.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  wandering  with  him  on 
tho  banks  of  the  Ganges,  "India's  coral  strand/'  and  listen- 


A   SEQUEL   TO  LINDA.  37 

ing,  from  the  ancient  rivers  and  the  spicy  groves  of  the  East, 
to  hymns  of  adoration  and  prayers  of  faith;  ascending  above 
the  burning  pyre  and  the  idolatrous  shrine. 

Julia  never  realized  so  fully  before  the  mighty  blessing  of 
being  born  in  a  Christian  land.  With  scarcely  conscious 
gratitude,  such  as  she  felt  for  the  sunshine  and  air  of  heaven 
diffused  over  all,  she  had  basked  in  the  light  of  Christianity, 
without  reflecting  on  the  awful  shadows  it  had  dispersed.  She 
had  been  enlightened  and  protected  by  its  divine  institutions, 
without  thinking  of  the  deep  degradation  she  had  escaped. 

Robert  saw  that  her  interest  was  awakened,  and  it  pleased 
him.  Without  dwelling  on  himself,  his  sacrifices  or  labours, 
he  continued  the  theme,  till  Nora's  warning  voice  was  heard 
reminding  Julia  that  she  was  a  slave  to  hours. 

Julia  heard  the  summons  with  surprise  and  regret,  for  never 
had  an  evening  glided  away  more  rapidly.  She  had  a  very 
humble  self-estimation,  and  felt  grateful  to  Robert  for  having 
devoted  so  much  time  to  such  a  little  insignificant  creature  as 
herself.  She  felt  still  more  grateful  to  him,  when  he  removed 
the  footstool  so  cautiously  from  her  feet,  and  assisted  her  to 
rise  from  her  bed  of  cushions  so  kindly  and  protectingly,  nor 
left  her,  till  Henry's  arm  encircled  her,  ready  to  carry  her 
through  the  hall  to  the  door  of  her  chamber. 

At  that  moment  she  would  not  have  exchanged  the  weak 
ness  that  required  such  kindness  and  protection,  for  the  ex 
ultant  sense  of  health  and  vitality  which  animated  the  bosom 
of  Nora  Marshall. 

"You  need  not  stay,"  said  Nora  to  Minta,  when  assisting 
Julia  she  entered  their  chamber,  where  every  thing  was  pre 
pared  for  their  nightly  rest. 

"How  nice  every  thing  looks — how  comfortable,  how  plea 
sant!"  exclaimed  Julia,  looking  gratefully  at  the  mortified 
Minta,  whose  countenance  brightened  as  she  spoke.  Indeed, 
every  thing  wore  a  most  inviting  aspect.  The  hearth  shone 
like  polished  jasper  in  the  ruddy  glow  that  warmed  it.  The 


38  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

white,  smooth  sheets  were  folded  back  from  the  swelling  pil 
lows  ;  the  white  night-dresses  were  spread  over  chairs  by  the 
fireside;  pure  fresh  water  sparkled  in  the  brimming  ewers, 
and  damask  napkins  hung  in  shining  folds  near  the  washstand. 

"Why  did  you  send  her  away?"  asked  Julia,  as  Minta 
closed  the  door. 

"  Because  we  have  nothing  for  her  to  do,  and  I  do  not  like 
listeners/'  replied  Nora.  "Strange  that  /should  be  cautious; 
but  I  always  had  an  aversion  to  have  a  negro  standing  at  the 
back  of  my  chair,  or  waiting  at  my  elbow.  It  makes  me  im 
patient." 

"I  do  not  like  such  close  attendance  either,"  said  Julia; 
"but  I  feared  her  feelings  might  be  hurt." 

Nora  laughed.  "  Oh,  no !  not  by  such  a  trifle.  But  tell 
me,  Julia,  have  I  not  been  very  good  to-night,  according  to 
my  bond  ?  I  have  no  doubt  your  brother  thinks  I  am  quite  a 
discreet  young  lady;  and  you,  what  do  you  think  of  our  mag 
nificent  saintship  of  a  host?" 

"Do  not  speak  in  that  light  way.  It  sounds  as  if  you  were 
mocking  at  his  piety  and  goodness.  He  is  certainly  very  pleas 
ing  and  very  kind." 

"  Kind  ! — I  should  like  to  know  what  kindness  there  is  in 
bowing  his  tall  head  and  overshadowing  such  a  sweet,  fragrant 
lily  as  you  are  a  whole  evening  ?  I  have  had  serious  thoughts 
of  trying  to  captivate  the  young  monk  myself,  but  I  foresee 
now  a  more  formidable  rival  to  the  beautiful  Linda.  I  believe," 
added  the  thoughtless  girl,  "I  shall  reserve  the  power  of  my 
charms  for  your  blue-eyed  widower  brother." 

This  light  badinage  sounded  like  sacrilege  to  Julia's  ear. 
She  thought  of  Mary  in  her  early  grave,  and  sighed.  Surely 
Henry  would  be  forever  constant  to  her  memory.  Love  hal 
lowed  by  death  must  be  immortal.  And  Nora !  even  if  Henry 
could  love  again,  which  was  impossible,  he  never  would  think 
of  one  so  entirely  different  to  his  delicate,  intellectual,  and 
gifted  bride. 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  39 

The  allusion  to  Robert,  in  connection  with  herself,  seemed 
more  sacrilegious  still.  In  whichever  character  she  considered 
him,  as  the  impassioned  lover  of  Linda,  or  the  Heaven-dedi 
cated  missionary,  he  seemed  as  remote  from  her  as  a  lone  and 
distant  star  shining  above  her,  the  key-stone  in  the  bright 
arch  of  night. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AND  thus  time  passed  away.  During  the  day  the  young 
men  were  abroad,  and  the  two  girls  were  left  to  their  own  re 
sources  for  enjoyment  and  occupation.  Robert  found  so  many 
duties  requiring  absolute  presence  and  co-operation,  that  he 
was  obliged  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  them,  and  Henry 
was  his  fellow  labourer  as  well  as  companion.  There  was 
novelty  as  well  as  excitement  to  the  latter,  in  the  superintend 
ence  of  a  plantation,  the  distribution  of  labour  and  reward 
among  the  negroes,  the  study  of  their  character,  and  all  that 
appertains  peculiarly  to  life  at  the  South. 

As  all  this  involved  exercise  in  the  open  air,  (and  such  a 
pure,  enchanting,  life-giving  air  it  was,)  and  the  daily  practice 
of  noble  horsemanship,  Henry  greeted  each  dawning  morning 
with  enthusiasm,  anticipating  the  renewal  of  the  enjoyment  of 
yesterday. 

Julia,  who  recovered  very  rapidly  from  the  effect  of  the 
accident  at  the  spring,  left  to  the  companionship  of  Nora 
passed  much  of  her  time  in  rambles  in  the  neighbouring  woods, 
swinging  under  the  shade  of  the  great  live  oaks,  playing  graces 
in  the  long  wide  hall,  or  tossing  the  feathery  bird  with  the 
resounding  battledores.  There  was  no  exercise  or  game  re 
quiring  agility  or  dexterity  in  which  Nora  was  not  a  proficient. 
Julia,  who  had  been  accustomed  to  yield  to  the  oppression  of 


40  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

languor,  believed  herself  incapable  of  any  athletic  exertion ; 
but  stimulated  by  the  example  of  the  graceful  and  spirited 
Nora,  she  endeavoured  to  imitate  her;  at  first  timidly,  and 
consequently  awkwardly,  but  at  length,  to  her  own  surprise,  she 
became  expert,  agile,  and  graceful  as  her  teacher.  Nora,  though 
till  wild  and  exuberant  in  her  frolics,  never  exhibited  any 
udeness  to  Julia  since  her  immersion  in  the  fountain.  She 
treated  her  with  a  gentleness  which  sometimes  mortified  Julia, 
fearing,  as  she  did,  that  it  was  inspired  by  compassion, — yet 
she  loved  the  impulsive  and  warm-hearted  girl,  and  found  an 
exhilaration  in  her  society,  like  that  imparted  by  the  fresh 
morning  breeze  and  the  invigorating  fragrance  of  the  young 
pine  woods.  And  Julia  was  to  Nora,  like  the  soft  evening 
dew,  or  rather  the  gentle  moonbeam,  stealing  over  the  rougher 
edges  of  her  character,  and  making  them  smoother  and  lovelier 
from  its  own  heavenly  reflection. 

But  the  evening  hours  were  welcomed  with  increasing  de 
light, — the  hours  which  brought  Robert  and  Henry  within  the 
sphere  of  their  influence.  Robert's  lonely  heart  grew  warm 
in  the  sunshine  of  friendship,  and  opened  to  the  admission  of 
social  joys.  He  had  thought  he  was  henceforth  to  be  a 
stranger  to  home-born  pleasures;  that  he  must  regard  him 
self  only  as  a  "  pilgrim  and  a  stranger  on  earth ;"  that  the 
cold  and  silent  walls  of  Pine  Grove  would  never  more  echo  to 
the  notes  of  gladness  or  the  voice  of  sociality.  He  had  never 
dreamed  of  any  one  seeking  him  in  his  solitude,  and,  least 
of  all,  the  friend  from  whom  he  was  so  widely  separated. 
The  presence  of  woman,  too !  how  strange,  how  unreal  it 
seemed ! 

When  he  returned  at  night,  and  entered  the  illuminated 
parlour,  he  saw  it  graced  by  forms  of  youth  and  beauty,  such 
as  would  attract  admiration  in  the  most  crowded  and  brilliant 
assembly, — how  much  more  thus  insulated  and  unrivalled  ! 
It  was  pleasant  to  meet  the  bright  welcome  of  Nora's  spark 
ling  eye,  still  more  the  soft  greeting  of  Julia's  bashful  smile, 
flft 


A   SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  41 

flitting  blush,  and  upward-beaming  glance.  He  was  not  vain. 
He  had  been  so  when  a  boy;  but  the  blight  which  had  fallen 
on  his  love  had  withered  his  vanity,  and  in  its  stead  Christian 
humility  grew  and  blossomed.  He  now  measured  himself  by 
a  standard  so  high,  that  in  comparison  he  must  ever  feel 
abased ;  and  though  the  lofty  aspect  which  nature  had  given 
him  still  conveyed  to  strangers  the  idea  of  pride,  it  was  the 
pride  which  looks  up  in  aspiration,  not  down  in  contempt. 

He  never  dreamed  of  interpreting  Julia's  quick-changing 
colour  and  winning  smiles  to  any  sentiment  flattering  to  him 
self.  He  was  interested  in  her  modesty,  gentleness,  and  intel 
ligence,  and  gratified  that  he  had  the  power  to  interest  her, 
by  the  earnest  seriousness  of  his  conversation.  He  thought 
not  of  exciting  the  emotions  of  her  heart ;  he  sought  only  to 
awaken  the  inherent  energies  of  her  soul. 

Henry  watched  their  growing  intercourse  with  delight. 
Julia  was  not  born  for  the  ungenial  North.  Transplanted  to 
the  jessamine  groves  and  magnolia  bowers  of  the  South,  she 
would  escape  the  doom  so  apt  to  fall  on  the  fairest  blossoms 
of  her  native  clime.  Robert,  no  longer  brooding  over  the 
agonies  of  unrequited  love,  but  happy  in  the  affections  of  a 
pure  and  vestal  heart,  would  take  the  position  which  God  and 
nature  intended  in  the  social  sphere.  All  this  the  brother  and 
friend  beheld,  in  perspective,  with  the  ardour  of  friendship 
and  the  prescience  of  fraternal  love.  He  cared  not  how  long 
they  lingered  at  Pine  Grove.  He  was  amused  by  the  gayety 
and  originality  of  Nora, — he  admired  her  beauty,  and  liked 
her  for  her  tenderness  to  Julia.  In  one  way  she  interested — 
by  never  allowing  him  to  maintain  the  same  opinion  of  her 
more  than  ten  minutes  at  a  time.  If  at  one  moment  she 
charmed  by  the  unexpected  good  sense  and  grace  of  her 
remarks,  she  would  utter  something  the  next  so  giddy  and 
childish  it  almost  vexed  him.  If  at  one  time  she  gratified  his 
self-love  by  some  indirect  compliment  or  expression  of  in 
terest  and  admiration,  at  another  sho  wounded  it  by  covert 


42  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

sarcasm  or  avowed  disapprobation.  He  was  sensitive  about 
his  size  :  though  exceedingly  graceful,  and  finely  formed,  he 
was  comparatively  small ;  and,  as  all  men  exult  in  the  posses 
sion  of  physical  power,  he  did  not  like  to  hear  any  remarks 
that  implied  a  deficiency  in  him.  Nora  discovered  this,  and 
dwelt  upon  Robert's  commanding  height  and  splendid  figure; 
till  he  imagined  it  impossible  that  she  should  admire  any 
thing  that  was  not  formed  on  a  grand  and  lofty  scale.  Then, 
again,  she  would  declare  that  such  men  as  Robert  were  only 
to  be  preferred  on  the  battle-field,  in  the  pulpit,  or  at  the  bar; 
they  were  never  intended  for  the  drawing-room,  where  grace, 
not  power,  held  the  ascendency.  Nora  was  a  brilliant  enigma, 
that  piqued  his  curiosity,  and  baffled  his  penetration ;  but  he 
said  to  himself,  again  and  again,  that  if  his  widowed  bosom 
could  ever  enshrine  another  idol,  it  could  not,  would  not,  bo 
such  a  being  as  Nora  Marshall. 

11  When  are  you  young  gentlemen  going  to  relax  in  your 
selfish  pursuits,  and  suffer  our  participation  ?"  asked  Nora,  one 
evening.  "  We  have  exhausted  our  fund  of  out-door  plea 
sures  and  in-door  enjoyments.  We  have  walked  till  every 
blade  is  worn  away  under  our  steps,  swung  till  we  have  con 
verted  ourselves  into  living  pendulums,  and  played  graces  till 
our  elbows  are  crooked  in  a  perpetual  angle.  My  resources 
are  exhausted ;  and,  if  you  cannot  suggest  a  variety,  I  shall 
not  take  the  trouble  to  rise  to-morrow." 

"  I  regret  the  necessity  which  has  made  us  such  uncourteous 
knights/'  replied  Robert,  smiling  j  "  but  to-morrow  we  are  at 
your  service.  ;Tis  yours  to  command, — 'tis  ours  to  obey/' 

"Thank  you/'  said  Nora:  "that  is  the  first  gallant  speech 
I  ever  heard  you  utter.  I  hail  it  as  an  omen  of  a  millennial 
day  of  courtesy  and  chivalry.  Julia,  do  you  ever  ride  on 
horseback  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !"  answered  Julia,  with  animation ;  "  that  is,  I 
like  it  very  much  with  a  gentle  horse." 

"  Gentle  !"  exclaimed  Nora,  her  eyes  flashing  with  excite- 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA  43 

ment.  "  I  like  them  wild  as  the  Arab  steed  of  the  desert, 
with  a  mane  floating  like  a  banner,  and  an  eye  blazing  like 
a  light-wood  torch.  Gentle !  Oh !  I  never  saw  the  horse 
yet  too  fiery  or  too  wild  for  the  guidance  of  this  girlish 
hand." 

She  stretched  out  a  white  hand,  sparkling  with  rings,  that 
ooked  better  fitted  to  press  the  ivory  keys  of  a  piano  than  to 
draw  the  iron  bit. 

"  I  should  like  to  challenge  you  to  a  trial  of  speed/'  said 
Henry,  admiring  the  spirited  grace  of  her  manner. 

"  You !"  she  exclaimed,  laughing ;  "  you  might  as  well 
challenge  the  forked  lightning.  No;  you  had  better  take 
care  of  your  gentle  little  sister,  and  leave  the  race  to  Mr.  Gra 
ham  and  myself.  Mounted  on  his  Black  Warrior,  he  sweeps 
over  hill  and  dale,  like  the  Wild  Huntsman,  or  the  Tempest 
King.  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  can  dance  like  an  Apollo, 
and  sing  like  an  Orpheus  ;  but  I  doubt  if  you  can  ride  like  a 
— like  a — I  forget — which  of  the  gods  were  celebrated  for 
their  noble  horsemanship  ?" 

"  If  I  am  not  mistaken,"  said  Henry,  his  face  glowing  with 
a  crimson  hue,  "Apollo  is  represented  reining  in  the  fiery 
steeds  of  the  sun,  showing  that  his  talents  were  not  limited  to 
mere  dancing." 

"  Your  brother  is  angry,"  said  Nora,  in  a  lower  voice  to 
Julia.  "  What  shall  I  do  to  propitiate  him  ?" 

"I  never  saw  Henry  angry,"  replied  Julia;  "but  he  may 
not  like  to  be  depreciated.  He  is  considered  a  remarkably  fine 
rider,  I  assure  you." 

"  Mr.  Bellenden  was  considered  the  best  equestrian  in  col 
lege,"  said  Robert;  "  and  if  he  is  not  exceedingly  degenerated, 
is  worthy  to  be  the  escort  of  the  Queen  of  the  Amazons." 

"  Do  you  imply  that  I  am  an  Amazon?"  asked  Nora,  turn 
ing  on  him  quite  a  belligerent  glance. 

"  I  imply  nothing — I  merely  assert  a  fact  regarding  Mr. 
Bellenden;  I  yield  to  him  the  honour  of  entering  the  listst 


44  ROBERT   GRAHAM  I 

with  you,  while  I  constitute  myself  the  guardian  of  Miss  Bel- 
lenden." 

"  I  am  not  worthy  of  such  an  honour,"  replied  Henry,  with 
mock  humility;  "therefore,  with  due  deference,  positively 
decline  it." 

Nora  bit  her  red  lips,  to  keep  back  a  saucy  rejoinder.  She 
saw  she  had  wounded  Henry's  pride,  and  she  was  sorry. 
She  had  not  intended  to  do  so.  She  was  perfectly  sincere  in 
the  doubt  she  expressed.  She  thought,  that  one  so  formed  to 
excel  in  the  light  graces  of  the  drawing-room  was  probably 
deficient  in  the  manlier  exercises  of  the  chase.  Robert  evi 
dently  preferred  escorting  Julia.  She  was  thought  compe 
tent  to  take  care  of  herself;  and  so  she  was.  Julia,  delicate 
and  timid,  protected  by  both,  was  not  equal  to  herself,  with 
her  undaunted  spirit  and  immovable  self-reliance. 

"  Well,"  she  exclaimed,  the  transient  shadow  passing  from 
her  brow,  and  her  countenance  resuming  its  expression  of  radi 
ant  good-humour :  "  you  shall  both  take  care  of  Julia,  leaving 
me  to  my  own  wild  way.  If  I  knew  how  to  bridle  my  tongue 
as  well  as  I  do  a  horse,  I  should  get  along  a  great  deal  better 
than  I  do." 

Here  she  looked  penitently  at  Henry,  who  smiled  in  re 
turn  one  of  his  own  hearty,  genial  smiles.  He  had  one  of 
those  golden  tempers  which  are  incapable  of  corrosion  or 
rust.  He  had  spirit  enough  to  resent,  and  kindness  enough 
to  forgive. 

"  One  can  scarcely  regret  passing  the  limits  of  caution," 
said  Henry,  "  when  candour  comes  so  gracefully  to  the  rescue. 
But  can  we  obtain  a  horse  sufficiently  gentle  for  this  con 
fessedly  coward  sister  of  mino  I" 

"I  have  one,  the  gentlest  of  the  gentle,"  said  Nora:  "so 
gentle  I  never  ride  hei  myself  now.  She  is  as  white  as  a 
Northern  snow-flake,  with  rosy  nostrils  and  dove-like  eyes. 
Julia  could  guide  it  with  her  silken  sash.  Her  name  is  Fair- 
Star.  Oh !  she  is  a  perfect  angel  of  a  horse." 


A    SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  45 

"  But  what  will  you  ride  yourself,  Nora  ?"  asked  Julia, 
laughing  at  Nora's  extravagant  description. 

"  I !— I  shall  ride  the  Thunderbolt/' 

"  The  Thunderbolt!  what  a  terrible  name \" 

"  He  is  exactly  what  his  name  describes;  a  combination 
of  splendour  and  terror.  He  is  a  young  colt;  just  broken; 
black  as  midnight,  with  such  a  glorious  mane  and  tail !  The 
first  time  I  mounted  him  he  was  without  saddle  or  bridle.  I 
made  a  bridle  of  his  sweeping  mane,  and  I  sat  in  the  hollow 
of  his  back,  as  easy  as  in  a  cradle.  Oh !  my  sweet  Julia,  you 
Northern  lassies" — 

She  stopped,  laughed,  and  pressed  her  hand  on  her  beauti 
ful  mouth. 

"You  must  not  judge  them  by  me,"  said  Julia;  "I  am 
but  a  poor  specimen." 

"  You  are  a  darling — that's  what  you  are !"  she  cried,  in 
the  most  childish,  simple  manner  possible;  "  but  you  must  go 
to  bed  now,  like  a  good  girl,  so  as  to  be  bright  and  fresh  on 
the  morrow.  Come,  we  will  leave  your  brother  and  his  Most 
Christian  Majesty  to  settle  all  the  preliminaries." 

Trembling  for  the  effect  of  her  undaunted  levity,  Julia 
raised  her  eyes  to  Robert's  face;  but  she  read  there  only  the 
mildest  gravity,  unshadowed  by  displeasure. 

"How  can  you  say  such  things  to  Mr.  Graham?"  asked 
Julia,  reproachfully,  when  they  were  alone :  "  do  you  not  fear 
to  offend  him?" 

"Fear!  I  am  not  afraid  of  any  one.  I  wish  I  were.  I 
fear  you  more  than  any  one  else." 

"  Me !     What  strange  opinions  you  do  express.     I  wish 
knew  when  you  were  serious." 

"  I  am  serious  now.  I  fear  you  more,  in  your  sweet,  femi 
nine  timidity,  shrinking  modesty,  and  angelic  purity,  than  a 
host  of  Robert  Grahams,  stately  and  imposing  as  he  is.  You 
are  a  silent,  constant  reproach  to  my  rudeness  and  thought 
lessness.  Do  not  shake  that  pretty  head.  It  is  true.  I  am 
21 


46  ROBERT  GRAHAM  : 

trying  to  imitate  you,  whether  you  believe  it  or  not;  but  I 
cannot,  any  more  than  the  wild-cat  can  resemble  the  dove.  I 
did  not  intend  to  say  any  thing  wounding  to  your  brother,  or 
wicked  to  Robert,  to-night ;  but  you  heard  what  I  did  say, 
and  I  could  not  help  it.  What  shall  I  do?" 

She  sat  down  on  a  low  seat,  and  shaking  her  black  hair  into 
ripples  over  her  shoulders,  pushed  it  back  from  her  right 
cheek,  and  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand.  She  looked  very 
thoughtful,  serious,  even  pensive.  One  beautiful  arm  lay  bare 
upon  her  lap,  the  other  was  covered  with  its  usual  drapery. 
Julia  stole  behind  her;  knelt  down  on  the  left  side,  and 
passed  her  arm  softly  round  her  bending  neck.  Her  own  hair 
was  unbound,  and  it  mingled  its  delicate,  silky  tresses  with 
Nora's  jetty  locks.  She  certainly  personified  the  angel  of 
consideration, — not  come  to  "  whip  the  offending  Adam"  froiu 
the  bosom  of  her  friend,  but  to  suggest  pure  and  holy  senti 
ments  there. 

"  Remember  the  golden  rule,  dear  Nora:  then  you  would 
never  say  any  thing  to  wound  the  feelings  of  another,  and 
you  would  have  nothing  to  regret  afterward.  It  seems  so 
simple,  so  easy.". 

"Easy  to  you,  child,"  said  Nora,  putting  both  arms  round 
Julia,  and  drawing  her  closer  to  her;  "easy  to  you,  who  were 
made  by  the  golden  rule,  and  cannot  depart  from  it.  You 
know  nothing  of  the  promptings  of  such  a  wayward  heart  as 
mine.  It  is  a  mystery  to  myself.  I  have  sometimes  thought, 
I  have  sometimes  dreamed," — here  she  turned  her  dark  eyes 
toward  Julia,  with  an  expression  of  awakened  sensibility, — 
'*  that  love  alone  could  tame  this  wild,  rebellious  spirit.  It 
B^ems  tome,  that  the  being  whom  I  loved,  if  such  there  indeed 
were,  could  mould  me,  like  melted  wax,  into  the  gentlest,  most 
exquisite  form.  There  are  times  when  my  heart  aches  from 
the  fulness  of  feeling,  waiting  for  a  channel  through  which 
the  living  waters  can  flow.  I  have  had  so  few  to  love,  Julia. 
My  mother  died  when  I  was  very  young  I  never  had  a  sister. 


A    SEQUEL   TO    LINDA.  47 

My  father,  though  the  kindest  and  best  man  in  the  world,  is  a 
man  full  of  business  and  care.  I  have  found  more  companion 
ship  with  nature  than  any  living  being;  but  it  is  not  in  the 
woods,  or  by  the  fountains,  one  learns  the  restraints  of  social 
life.  I  have  been  left  too  much  to  myself/'  • 

"  Let  me  be  your  sister,  dear  Nora,"  said  Julia,  charmed 
nd  deeply  moved  by  Nora's  unexpected  sensibility.  "I  have 
left  behind  me  one  of  the  loveliest  and  best.  Let  me  adopt 
you  in  her  stead,  during  my  exile  from  home." 

"  Take  me,  then,  Julia,  with  all  my  faults,  for  you  know  not 
how  dearly,  how  truly  I  can  love  you.  But  you  are  going  to 
leave  me,  going  to  one  who  will  efface  every  impression  I  may 
have  made  on  your  affections.  When  you  once  know  Linda, 
you  will  care  nothing  for  poor  me." 

"You  must  think  me  very  poor  in  love.  But  why  cannot 
you  accompany  us  ?  I  cannot  think  of  parting  with  you  so 
soon." 

Nora's  eyes  sparkled  through  the  moisture  that  had  been 
gathering  on  their  darkness. 

"  Do  you  indeed  wish  it  ?     But  your  brother  ?" 

"He  would  be  delighted,  like  myself." 

"  But  Robert  ?" 

"  You  know  you  do  not  fear  him,"  said  Julia,  smiling,  "so 
you  need  not  mention  him.  It  would  be  such  an  act  of  kind 
ness.  If  I  should  be  very  ill,  who  would  nurse  me  so  tenderly 
as  you  can  do?" 

"  I  will  ask  my  father,"  said  Nora.  "I  am  a  very  dutiful 
child.  I  never  do  any  thing  without  his  consent,  because," 
she  added,  laughing,  "he  always  gives  it.  How  soon  do  you 
think  of  leaving  here  ?" 

"As  soon  as  Mr.  Graham  is  ready." 

"That  would  never  be,  unless  he  were  going  to  accompany 
you.  Why  do  you  turn  away  so  quickly,  Julia  ?  I  did  not 
say  any  thing  wrong,  then,  did  I?" 


48  EOBEET  GRAHAM: 

"  No;  only  I  do  not  wish  you  to  think — I  do  not  like  you 
to  suppose — I  am  sure  you  have  no  reason" — 

Julia,  confused  and  stammering,  wishing  to  appear  vexed, 
yet  secretly  pleased,  avoided  Nora's  searching  glance.  In  spite 
of  all  her  efforts,  her  heart  would  palpitate  with  delight  at  the 
idea  of  Robert's  wishing  to  retain  her  by  his  side. 

"  You  need  not  shade  your  face  so  carefully  with  that  golden 
veil  of  yours,"  said  Nora.  "  The  heart  glows  through  it  all ; 
I  see  it  even  in  the  crimson  ear  that  peeps  from  the  gleaming 
fibres.  You  need  not  blush  so  guiltily.  I  should  glory  in 
such  emotions.  Ay,  had  Robert  Graham  shown  as  much  in 
terest  in  me  as  he  has  in  you,  I  might  have  felt  them  too;  but 
believe  me,  gentle  Julia,  my  love  will  never  be  lavished  in 
vain,  for  it  will  never  be  won  unsought. " 

Julia  gazed  on  this  singular  and  exciting  girl,  wondering  at 
the  varying  phases  of  her  character,  now  admiring,  now  con 
demning,  yet  loving  her  through  all.  She  had  never  met  one 
like  her,  never  imagined  one  like  her.  In  the  guarded  pre 
cincts  of  her  own  home,  her  associates  had  been  few,  and  se 
lected  most  carefully  by  parental  wisdom.  Nora  Marshall  was, 
perhaps,  the  last  person  whom  Mrs.  Bellenden  would  have 
chosen  as  the  companion  of  her  daughter;  but  how  seldom  is  it 
one  can  choose,  for  themselves  or  others.  People  are  drifted 
together  by  the  tide  of  circumstances,  who  have  no  affinity  or 
mutual  attraction ;  and  those  who  seem  to  be  twin-born  souls 
are  separated  by  barriers  high  as  the  mountains  and  deep  as 
the  seas. 

Like  a  flower-petal  cast  by  the  wind  on  the  waves,  Julia  was 
floating  on  to  meet  her  destiny.  Had  she  remained  among  her 
native  scenes,  she  might  have  been  borne  on  more  tranquil  wa 
ters,  but  would  she  have  known  greater  happiness  ? 


A    SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  49 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  LOOK,  Julia,  look !"  exclaimed  Nora,  drawing  Julia  to  the 
window  as  she  spoke.  "There  they  are.  Are  they  not  the 
most  beautiful  creatures  you  ever  saw  ?  There  is  the  bright 
morning  Fair-Star,  white  as  a  lily,  soft  as  silk,  and  meek  as  a 
lamb.  That  is  yours,  but  only  see  mine." 

She  pointed  to  two  horses,  handsomely  caparisoned,  which 
the  negro  grooms  were  leading  to  the  door.  Julia  was  not 
such  an  enthusiast  on  the  subject  as  Nora,  but  she  did  admire 
a  beautiful  horse,  and  liked  to  ride  when  she  could  secure  one 
particularly  gentle,  as  she  had  said  the  evening  before.  She 
was  charmed  with  the  mild  aspect  of  Fair- Star,  who  stood  so 
perfectly  still  not  a  hair  in  her  flowing  mane  or  tail  moved. 
She  looked  more  like  a  beautiful  milk-white  statue  than  a  living 
animal.  But  the  Thunderbolt!  his  neck  did  indeed  seem 
"clothed  in  thunder,"  above  the  rainbow's  arch.  The  sun 
beams  flashed  back  from  his  shining  flanks  as  from  burnished 
ebony.  His  eyes  looked  like  imprisoned  lightning.  He 
champed  his  bits,  pawed  the  ground  with  his  impatient  feet, 
curved  his  superb  neck,  and  shook  his  splendid  mane.  Nora 
gazed  upon  him  with  the  proud  delight  with  which  the  warrior 
looks  upon  the  steed  that  cries  Aha!  to  the  battle,  and  that  is 
to  bear  him  through  its  smoke  and  din. 

"Thunderbolt!   my  darling!"  she  cried,  throwing  up  the 
sash,  and  rapping  on  the  panes  with  her  riding-whip,  "  bid  you 
mistress  good-morning." 

The  animal,  recognising  the  voice  of  Nora,  neighed,  leaped, 
caracoled  first  one  side,  then  the  other,  exhibiting  a  fierce 
beauty,  which  made  Julia  tremble  as  she  gazed. 

"  Oh,  Nora — you  will  not  mount  that  fiery  animal.     You 
cannot  restrain  him — a  man  could  scarcely  do  it." 
D 


50  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"  I  have  done  it,  child,  and  more  than  once.  Waste  no 
apprehensions  on  me.  I  shall  be  safer  on  that  proud  animal, 
than  you  on  gentle  Fair-Star's  back,  because  I  have  no  fears. 
Ah — there  they  come !  Well,  that  does  look  like  riding." 

Nora's  practised  and  observant  eye  saw  at  one  glance  that 
Henry  was  master  of  the  horse  which  bore  him,  a  handsome 
and  spirited  bay.  He  sat  with  ease,  firmness,  and  grace — a 
manly  grace  that  magnified  his  proportions,  and  invested  them 
with  the  idea  of  athletic  power. 

"  Your  brother  rides  well,  Julia — admirably — capitally.  I 
have  not  done  him  justice — I  will  tell  him  so." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Julia,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  another 
horseman,  "  splendidly.  What  a  noble  match  his  coal-black 
steed  will  make  for  yours !  And  well  do  you  mate  the  gallant 
rider." 

"  Thank  you,  Julia,  I  was  not  speaking  of  him ;  but  I  do 
not  wonder  at  your  admiration.  Desdemona  told  Othello,  if 
he  had  a  friend  who  wished  to  woo  her,  to  bid  him  tell  his 
story,  and  that  would  win  her.  /would  have  told  him  to  ride 
such  a  horse,  in  such  a  manner,  and  conquest  should  be  his." 

Robert's  appearance  at  this  moment  fully  justified  Nora's 
praise.  His  raven  hair,  blown  back  by  the  breeze,  corre 
sponded  well  with  the  glossy  blackness  of  the  horse's  curling 
mane.  His  colour  was  raised,  and  his  eyes  flashed  with  un 
usual  animation.  The  Black  Warrior,  a  large,  powerful,  war 
like-looking  animal,  that  reminded  one  of  a  quiver  of  thun 
derbolts,  if  Nora's  did  of  one,  bowed  his  stately  head  and 
stepped  daintily,  as  if  unwilling  to  crush  a  worm  that  might 
be  in  its  path  while  its  master  held  the  rein.  Bruno  followed 
majestically  in  the  rear,  indulging  occasionally  in  a  low  growl 
of  satisfaction,  and  glancing  obliquely  at  the  two  charming 
figures,  which  now  stood  in  the  doorway. 

Nora  never  looked  half  as  handsome  as  in  her  riding-dress 
of  forest  green,  sweeping  far  below  her  feet,  hat  and  feathers 
of  the  same  hue,  heightening  by  contrast  the  rosy  splendour  of 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA. 


51 


her  complexion,  and  corresponding  to  the  leaf-work  that  sur 
rounds  the  flower. 

Julia  was  clothed  in  blue,  darker  than  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
less  deep  than  the  dye  of  the  indigo.  It  was  the  colour  of 
the  sea,  seen  from  afar  on  a  bright,  sunny  day,  through  the 
shades  of  an  intervening  wood.  A  black  hat,  with  feathers 
gracefully  falling,  sat  modestly  on  her  light  sunny  hair,  and 
enhanced  the  dazzling  fairness  of  her  complexion. 

"You  are  a  pretty  creature/'  cried  Nora,  as  if  suddenly 
struck  by  the  beauty  and  fitness  of  her  costume;  "you  and 
Fair-Star  were  made  on  purpose  for  each  other." 

The  young  men  dismounted  and  approached  the  door. 
Julia  was  full  of  trepidation,  which  she  was  ashamed  to  have 
observed,  and  endeavoured  to  conceal.  She  had  been  very 
little  accustomed  to  riding,  and  she  now  wondered  at  her  folly 
and  temerity  in  thinking  of  going  at  all,  especially  with  those 
whose  skill  and  fearlessness  shamed  her  cowardice  and  inex 
perience. 

"I  think  you  had  better  leave  me  behind,"  said  she,  when 
Robert  led  her  to  Fair-Star,  and  was  about  to  assist  her  to 
mount.  « I  shall  spoil  all  your  enjoyment.  I  fear  you  think 
me  very  foolish,  but  indeed  I  cannot  help  it." 

Robert  felt  her  hand  tremble,  and  knew  there  was  no  affec 
tation  in  her  timidity. 

«  Your  apprehensions  will  pass  away  the  moment  you  com 
mence  riding,"  said  he,  in  a  reassuring  tone.  "  Let  me  place 
you  on  the  horse,  ride  several  times  round  the  yard,  and  then, 
if  you  decline  going,  I  will  not  urge  you.  I  think,  however 
Vou  may  trust  yourself  with  me." 

With  one  of  his  rare  and  magic  smiles,  he  lifted  her  011 
Fair-Star's  back,  placed  her  foot  in  the  stirrup  and  the  bridle 
in  her  hand;  and  still  gently  holding  the  rein,  led  the  ani 
mal,  at  first  slowly,  then  with  a  more  rapid  step,  along  the 
path.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  the  Black  Warrior  fol 
lowing  his  master  step  by  step,  arching  his  neck  with  such  an 


52  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

air  of  graceful  self-restraint,  and  treading  as  lightly  as  if  shod 
with  down  instead  of  iron.  Thus  they  went  the  whole  circuit 
of  the  yard,  Nora  laughing  all  the  time,  and  the  negroes  clus 
tered  near  the  gate,  showing  their  white  teeth. 

"  Shall  I  ?"  asked  Kobert,  letting  go  the  rein,  and  laying 
his  hand  on  the  mane  of  his  own  horse,  "  or  shall  I  lead  you 
round  a  second  time  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Julia,  smiling  at  her  vanished  fears,  "  I 
see  how  gentle  and  docile  she  is,  and  I  am  no  longer  afraid.  I 
thank  you  for  encouraging  instead  of  laughing  at  me.  But, 
indeed,  you  must  not  think  of  keeping  pace  with  my  slow  mo 
tions.  I  know  what  a  sacrifice  it  would  be.  Henry  is  ac 
customed  to  it,  and  will  not  mind  it  so  much.  I  insist  upon 
your  riding  on  with  Nora,  and  leaving  me  behind." 

"  Is  it  for  my  sake  or  your  own  you  speak  ?"  asked  Robert. 
"  If  you  really  prefer  riding  with  your  brother,  and  think  he 
will  take  care — better  care  of  you,  I  will  relinquish  my  place 
to  him.  If  it  is  my  pleasure  you  consult,  I  assure  you,  it 
consists  in  remaining  where  I  am." 

"  It  was  yours,  of  course,"  said  Julia,  earnestly ;  "  I  could 
have  no  other  motive." 

She  feared  he  might  think  her  ungrateful,  and  no  longer 
opposed  his  determination.  She  had  made  a  magnanimous 
proposition,  willing  to  have  it  accepted,  but  her  heart  throbbed 
with  secret  delight  that  it  was  refused ;  in  such  a  manner,  too : 
not  with  unmeaning  gallantry,  but  an  air  of  earnest  sincerity, 
that  left  her  no  room  to  doubt  his  truth. 

"  We  will  let  them  lead,"  said  Robert,  springing  into  his 
saddle  and  drawing  back  so  as  to  leave  the  pathway  clear. 
"  It  is  only  making  a  grace  of  necessity,  for  Nora  and  the 
Thunderbolt  would  clear  their  passage  through  the  live-oaks, 
if  they  impeded  her  way." 

It  was  with  rather  a  saucy  smile  that  Henry  bowed  and 
held  out  his  hand  for  Nora's  springing  foot. 

"Is  it  thus  the  Pine-wood  nymphs  mount    their   gallant 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  53 

steeds?"  asked  he,  "or  thus?"  added  he,  bending  on  onf 
knee  and  presenting  it  for  a  footstool  for  her  ascent. 

lt  Neither,"  answered  Nora,  glancing  with  a  gay  smile  ai 
the  white  hand  so  gracefully  extended,  gathering  her  green 
skirts  in  her  left  hand,  and  laying  the  other  on  the  saddle 
bow,  she  vaulted  into  her  seat  with  as  much  ease  as  Robert 
had  done.  "  We  mount  like  the  birds  of  the  air,  and  wing 
our  way  like  them." 

"  Softly,  darling,  softly,"  she  cried,  as  Thunderbolt  leaped 
into  the  air,  with  a  spring  that  would  have  shaken  the  timid 
Julia  from  her  seat. 

"  You  had  better  let  me  lead  him  through  the  gate,"  said 
Henry.  "  You  cannot  manage  him  alone,  indeed  you  cannot." 

"  Touch  him  not,"  cried  Nora,  "  touch  him  not,  but  let  me 
go.  Stay  with  Robert  and  Julia  if  you  like,  but  follow  me 
if  you  dare." 

Away  she  flew,  looking  back  and  kissing  her  hand,  her  green 
plumes  fluttering  against  the  moss  garlands,  as  she  shot  under 
the  live-oak's  boughs. 

"  Not  so  fast,  fair  fugitive,  but  I  can  overtake  thee,"  cried 
Henry,  darting  after  her  with  the  speed  of  lightning. 

"  Go  it,  go  it,  Massa  Robert !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  negro 
grooms,  rubbing  his  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  excitement ;  "neber 
let  'em  beat  you,  massa." 

But  Robert  lingered  till  the  echo  of  the  resounding  hoofs 
died  away  on  the  ear,  allaying  Julia's  awakened  fears.  She 
trembled,  and  turned  of  deadly  paleness,  as  the  reckless  Nora 
and  her  brother  flew  by.  She  expected  to  see  herself  carried 
along  at  the  same  rapid  rate,  without  her  own  volition, — she 
expected  to  see  Robert  whirled  away  with  the  same  dizzying 
speed.  But  when,  after  a  pause,  she  found  herself  moving 
gently  from  under  the  pine  trees  outside  the  gate,  into  a  smooth, 
level  path,  with  Robert  still  at  her  side,  the  Black  Warrior 
obeying  his  guidance  with  the  docility  of  a  tame  fawn,  she  be 
gan  to  feel  the  comfort  of  safety,  and  the  exhilaration  of  mo- 


54  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

tion.  There  was  something  so  novel,  so  rural,  in  riding  through 
the  woods  instead  of  a  travelled  highway ;  something  so  lonely, 
yet  romantic,  it  pleased  her  fresh  young  nature.  She  felt  so 
much  better,  so  much  happier,  than  she  did  when  she  first  came, 
she  wondered  what  had  jecome  of  her  heart-yearnings  and 
home-sickness,  her  awe  of  her  young  host.  She  wondered 
if  the  skies  were  indeed  brighter  than  in  her  Northern  clime, 
the  moon  fairer,  the  flowers  sweeter,  or  whether  a  new  spring 
was  blooming  in  her  heart.  As  they  rode  along,  with  a  gra 
dually  quickening  pace,  Robert  became  silent,  and  Julia  noticed 
that  his  brow  saddened.  He  had  rode  through  those  woods 
too  often  with  Linda,  in  his  more  boyish  days,  not  to  have 
memory  busy  with  his  thoughts ;  and  memory  was  always  barbed 
with  remorse  when  it  brought  her  image  to  his  mind.  Julia 
divined  the  subject  of  his  revery,  and  looked  into  the  green 
aisles  of  the  woods,  that  she  might  not  intrude  on  the  mystery 
of  his  meditations.  Deeply  she  pitied  him  for  his  blighted 
hopes,  and  her  heart  rose  against  Linda  for  having  doomed  him 
to  the  misery  of  unrequited  love.  She  could  not  believe  that 
Roland  Lee  was  worthy  of  the  preference,  forgetting  that  the 
Robert  Graham  whom  she  knew  was  very  different  from  the 
youth  whom  Linda  dreaded  and  shunned.  She  had  never  felt 
before  what  a  sad  thing  it  was  to  love,  and  love  in  vain.  Death 
seemed  preferable  to  such  a  doom. 

"No,"  thought  she,  stealing  a  glance  at  Robert's  veiled 
countenance,  for  he  was  looking  down,  and  the  shadow  of  his 
long,  dark  lashes  saddened  his  cheek,  "  I  would  far  rather  die 
in  early  youth,  fade  in  the  springtime  of  life,  scqrched  by  con 
sumption's  hectic  breath,  than  live  to  wither  away,  consumed 
by  the  slow  and  wasting  fires  of  disregarded  love." 

She  sighed,  and  Robert,  starting  from  his  revery,  turned 
and  met  her  wistful,  sympathizing  glance.  "  Forgive  my 
moodiness,"  said  he,  struck  by  the  peculiar  expression  of  her 
countenance.  u  For  a  moment  I  was  lost  in  the  memories  of 
the  past.  I  am  not  very  old,  yet  it  seems  as  if  I  had  lived 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  55 

centuries.  The  shadows  of  bygone  years  sweep  by  me,  in 
these  familiar  paths,  extinguishing  with  momentary  gloom 
the  brightness  of  the  present.  Believe  me,  I  am  not  ungrate 
ful  for  the  happiness  of  having  such  a  companion,  debarred  us 
I  have  lately  been  from  all  social  joys.  I  feel,  however,  so 
deficient  in  every  power  to  please  and  interest  a  young  maiden 
like  yourself,  that  I  sometimes  fear  you  will  think  of  me  as  a 
misanthropist  or  cynic.  Are  you  weary?" 

"No,"  replied  Julia,  "I  seem  to  gather  strength  as  I  ride. 
It  seems  to  me  I  could  ride  any  distance." 

{f  But  you  must  remember  the  return,  and  not  venture  too 
far." 

"  But  where  are  Nora  and  my  brother  ?  Where  do  you  sup 
pose  they  have  flown  to  ?" 

"  It  is  impossible  to  tell  where  the  Thunderbolt  may  bear 
her,  but  there  can  be  no  danger  on  this  level  road.  As  our 
movements  are  entirely  independent  of  theirs,  we  need  not 
think  of  them  at  all." 

Julia  found  it  too  easy  not  to  think  of  any  thing  but  Robert, 
who  now  exerted  all  his  powers  of  pleasing,  to  make  up  for  the 
involuntary  wandering  of  his  thoughts.  He  could  not  talk 
long  or  earnestly  without  imparting  to  his  conversation  a  hea 
venly  glow,  which  warmed  the  heart  of  the  hearer.  Julia  felt 
that  speech  was  a  divine  gift,  thus  improved,  and  thoughts  of 
her  own,  which  had  been  hidden  in  her  soul,  deep  as  pearls  in 
the  ocean  waves,  came  up  like  holy  revealings,  and  found  spon 
taneous  utterance.  She  had  been  so  accustomed  to  hear  people 
talk  of  indifferent  subjects,  of  men  and  women,  and  houses 
and  lands,  or  of  books  and  authors,  and  all  the  usual  topics  of 
the  day,  it  sounded  strange,  when  the  soul  and  its  glorious 
attributes,  its  undying  interests  and  immortal  destiny,  when 
God  and  eternity,  were  made  the  themes  of  conversation  j  not 
brought  forward  with  mock  solemnity,  fanatical  zeal,  or  elabo 
rate  formality,  but  introduced  with  simplicity  and  grace,  and 
dwelt  upon  with  an  eloquence  born  of  truth  and  religion. 


56  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

Julia  was  full  of  religious  feeling.  She  was  the  child  of 
Christian  parents,  and  had  been  educated  according  to  Christian 
principles ;  but  she  had  always  believed  that  holy  thoughts 
and  devout  aspirations  were  to  be  enshrined  in  the  most 
guarded  recesses  of  the  soul,  like  the  golden  vessels  of  the 
Lord  in  the  ancient  Jewish  temples.  The  name  of  God  was 
too  great,  too  glorious,  too  awful  to  be  mentioned  but  in  prayer, 
and  heaven  a  place  of  distant  and  mysterious  glory.  But 
Robert  spoke  of  these,  with  reverence,  it  is  true,  but  with  the 
same  ease  as  he  conversed  of  the  beauties  of  nature  or  the 
wonders  of  art,  and  Julia  felt  drawn  toward  him  by  a  new  and 
holy  attraction.  Though  from  her  youth,  and  the  extreme 
delicacy  of  her  health,  she  had  mingled  but  little  in  the 
fashionable  world,  she  had  listened  to  the  usual  topics  with 
which  young  gentlemen  seek  to  interest  the  ears  of  beauty, 
and  felt  how  little  calculated  they  were  to  meet  the  demands 
of  the  intellect,  or  the  cravings  of  the  heart.  Words  were 
uttered  of  pleasing  sound,  but  no  thought  suggested  to  the 
mind,  no  feeling  awakened  in  the  soul.  Now  mind  and  heart 
were  both  aroused,  as  by  the  wand  of  an  enchantress;  and 
like  Abraham,  when  he  discovered  that  angels  had  slept  in  his 
tent,  she  was  astonished  to  find  what  bosom-guests  she  had  en 
tertained  unawares. 

Their  progress  was  suddenly  impeded  by  two  immense  pine 
trees  that  had  fallen  from  opposite  sides  of  the  road  across 
their  path.  They  were  old,  blighted,  girdled  trees, — an  aged 
couple,  that,  having  weathered  many  a  stormy  day  together, 
sank  side  by  side  into  the  repose  of  death. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Robert,  "here  are  some  of  the  trophies 
of  time,  gathered  during  my  absence.  I  have  not  travelled 
this  road  since  my  return,  and  believed  it  unobstructed.  But 
where  can  our  companions  have  gone?  They  could  not  have 
overcome  such  a  barrier  as  this,  and  I  see  no  other  way  by 
which  they  could  have  proceeded." 

As  they  had  been  riding  so  leisurely,  the  horses  showed  no 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  57 

restlessness  at  this  sudden  interruption  of  their  course.  They 
stood  perfectly  still,  gazing  on  the  dead  bodies  of  the  trees, 
though  the  Black  Warrior  drew  up  his  stately  neck,  and  looked 
as  if  he  would  have  spurned  them  with  his  hoofs,  if  his  master 
would  permit. 

"What  can  have  become  of  them?"  cried  Julia,  looking 
anxiously  round  her,  through  the  thick  woods.  "Is  that 
water  which  I  see  on  the  right,  gleaming  in  the  distance  ?  Is 
it  a  river  or  a  lake  ?" 

"  It  is  a  creek,"  he  answered, — "  Stony  Creek ;  but  it  is  as 
wide  and  deep  as  many  of  your  Northern  rivers." 

"They  cannot  have  gone  in  that  direction.  There  is  no 
road  leading  to  it,"  cried  Julia;  her  fears  growing  stronger,  as 
she  marked  the  anxious  countenance  of  Robert. 

"I  cannot  imagine  what  course  they  have  taken,"  re 
plied  Robert;  "  but  Nora  knows  the  stream  is  too  deep,  and 
has  too  rapid  a  current  to  be  forded,  for  a  mile's  distance. 
Reckless  as  she  is,  she  would  not  rush  into  absolute  danger. 
If  you  were  willing  that  I  should  leave  you  a  little  while  alone, 
I  would  ride  to  the  banks  of  the  creek  and  see  if  I  can  ascer 
tain  their  course.  I  can  find  you  a  seat  on  one  of  the  fallen 
trees,  where  you  can  rest  and  meditate  till  my  return." 

Had  she  consulted  her  own  selfish  feelings,  Julia  would  have 
shrunk  from  remaining  alone  in  the  deep  woods,  even  at  noon 
day  ;  but  she  was  anxious  for  her  brother  and  Nora,  and  she 
could  not  refuse  a  request  made  by  Robert. 

"But  how  can  you  go?"  asked  she,  when  he  had  placed 
her  carefully  on  a  curving  branch,  that  seemed  formed  ex 
pressly  for  a  traveller's  seat,  and  fastened  Fair-Star  to  a 
neighbouring  tree.  "There  is  no  pathway  here.  You  will 
get  into  danger  yourself,  without  finding  them.  Oh !  what  a 
wild  place.  How  easy  to  be  lost  in  these  woods  !" 

There  was  something  in  the  pale  terror  of  Julia's  counte 
nance,  the  soft  pleading  of  her  earnest  tones,  that  excited  un 
wonted  emotion  in  Robert's  bosom.  "  You  will  get  into  danger 


58  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

yourself!"  she  said,  in  such  a  sweet,  thrilling  tone.  Did  she 
really  care  whether  he  were  in  danger  or  not  ?  Had  he,  the 
once  rejected  and  unloved,  the  power  to  stir  the  deep  fountain 
of  feeling  in  a  woman's  breast  ? 

"Fear  not  for  me,  Julia/7  he  said,  "nor  for  them  either. 
There  is  no  danger."  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  called 
her  Julia,  and  it  was  an  era  in  her  life.  She  had  always 
thought  it  a  sweet  name,  but  she  had  never  known  the  full 
music  of  its  sound  before.  He  gave  her  hand  a  reassuring 
pressure.  "  God  and  his  angels  are  watching  over  us  all," 
cried  he,  looking  up  to  heaven;  then  mounting  his  horse,  he 
plunged  into  the  woods,  apparently  cleaving  them  in  his  rapid 
course. 

And  where  were  Nora  and  Henry  all  this  time  ?  After  Nora 
had  flashed  through  the  gate,  and  Henry  to  her  ineffable  sur 
prise  had  overtaken  her,  she  relaxed  her  speed  a  little,  so  that 
she  could  speak,  for  she  loved  to  talk  as  well  as  she  did  to  ride. 

"  Mr.  Bellenden,"  said  she,  "I  have  not  done  you  justice. 
You  are  a  fine  horseman,  and  I  respect  you." 

"I  am  most  happy  in  having  earned  your  approbation. 
Your  respect,  having  risen  from  the  ashes  of  scorn,  is  doubly 
precious." 

"Scorn!  I  know  I  am  rude,  but  I  defy  you  to  prove  me 
scornful." 

"  Oh !  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looked  beautiful  in  the  contempt 
of  that  lip,  last  night,  when  you  bade  me  take  care  of  my  little, 
gentle  sister,  and  leave  to  Mr.  Graham  and  yourself  the  honours 
of  horsemanship." 

"  Well,  I  begin  to  think  you  can  ride  as  well  as  he  does 
Does  that  satisfy  your  vanity  ?" 

"No  :  I  would  be  first  in  your  estimation.  I  am  not  vain 
but  proud." 

"  There  is  no  distinction  in  that.  All  men  are  as  proud  as 
Lucifer,  and  as  arbitrary — except  my  father.  He  is  the  only 
good  man  I  know." 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  59 

"  If  you  knew  me  "better,"  said  Henry,  laughing,  "  I  have 
no  doubt  you  would  think  me  very  good/' 

"  Then  I  should  not  care  any  thing  about  you.  I  like  good 
old  folks,  but  good  young  ones  are  the  most  stupid  beings  in 
the  world.  That  is  the  reason  I  do  not  try  to  be  better  my 
self." 

"You  speak  of  assumed  goodness — which  has  no  vitality, 
and  is  therefore  cold  and  dull.  Is  Robert  Graham  less  agree 
able  now,  in  his  acknowledged  goodness  and  piety,  than  when 
his  passions  were  his  masters  instead  of  his  vassals  ?" 

"  But  he  has  passions ;  under  his  control,  it  is  true ;  but 
they  exist,  and  give  him  character  and  power.  You  can  feel 
them  in  the  glance  of  his  eye,  the  tone  of  his  voice,  and  in  the 
loftiness  of  his  carriage.  Besides,  I  do  not  call  him  good." 

"  What  do  you  call  him  ?" 

"  No  matter.  He  is  very  different  from  you.  I  wonder  how 
you  ever  became  friends." 

"  From  the  force  of  contrast,  perhaps — upon  the  same  prin 
ciples  that  we  shall  become  friends.  In  spite  of  your  present 
mean  opinions  of  mankind,  I  shall  constrain  you  to  think  well 
of  me." 

"  I  never  knew  constraint  in  my  life.  I  could  not  bear  it. 
I  have  always  had  my  own  way." 

"Has  it  made  you  happy — The  undisputed  dominion  of 
your  own  wild  will  ?" 

"  No !"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  deep  seriousness.  "  I 
would  reverence  the  master-spirit  with  power  to  govern  my 
own.  I  would  kneel  in  humble  prostration  at  such  a  shrine. 
I  would  bring  to  it  oblations  and  offerings  purer  and  richer 
than  Eastern  devotee  ever  knew." 

Henry  gazed  upon  her  in  surprise  and  admiration.  Had 
the  fountain  of  Hippocrene  gushed  up  beneath  his  horse's  feet, 
he  could  not  have  felt  more  astonished  or  delighted.  He  had 
thought  her  bright  and  sparkling,  but  cold  as  phosphorescent 
light.  Her  dark  eyes  glowed  with  the  fervour  of  her  feelings, 


60  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

while  the  colour  came  and  went  on  her  warm  cheek.  Oh  ! 
that  he  could  keep  this  wild  and  wayward  creature  in  this 
charming,  womanly  mood !  He  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but 
hers  parted  again,  and  the  spell  was  broken. 

"I  should  despise  any  one  whom  I  could  rule/'  she  ex 
claimed,  with  a  disdainful  air, — "  even  Thunderbolt,  whom  I 
almost  adore,  I  sometimes  hold  in  contempt,  for  being  governed 
by  this  hand  of  mine.  Come,  then,  Lightning-bearer;  wake 
up,  and  show  if  you  have  any  life  or  spirit  left." 

"  Take  care,  Miss  Marshall,  he  may  redeem  his  character  at 
a  costly  price  to  you.  It  is  really  unsafe  to  ride  so  like  a 
tempest." 

She  only  laughed  and  spurred  her  fiery  steed.  While  they 
were  riding  at  the  most  furious  rate,  they  came  suddenly  to 
the  fallen  trees,  which,  being  at  the  turning  of  the  road,  they 
had  not  perceived.  The  Thunderbolt  reared  his  fore-feet,  as 
if  he  would  leap  to  the  zenith,  and  Nora  would  have  forced 
him  on,  had  it  been  possible  for  him  to  spring  over  the  barrier, 
without  the  risk  of  being  placed  in  a  ridiculous  situation,  that 
is,  of  being  caught  in  the  branches  of  the  trees, — for  it  was  the 
upper  part  of  the  pines  that  lay  crossing  each  other,  inter 
lacing  their  gnarled  boughs,  and  it  presented  a  formidable 
bridge  for  a  young  lady  to  cross.  The  Southern  forests  are 
usually  so  open,  that  the  equestrian  can  easily  force  his  way, 
in  any  direction ;  but  on  the  sides  of  the  road  beyond  the  cross 
ing  pines,  there  happened  to  be  so  many  decaying  gigantic 
trunks  and  old  roots,  charred  and  grim,  with  great  serpent 
fangs  writhing  in  the  air,  Henry  resisted  manfully  Nora's 
determination  to  go  on. 

"We  must  return,"  said  he;  "I  have  practised  leaping  over 
bars  and  ditches,  but  this  defies  the  Thunderbolt's  passage." 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  go  back,"  cried  Nora,  impatiently,  trying 
in  vain  to  check  Thunderbolt's  fiery  motions.  "I  am  sure  we 
can  make  a  nice  path  on  this  side." 

"  Indeed,  you  must  not  think  of  it,"  said  Henry,  positively 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  61 

"  You  will  tear  your  dress,  or  what  is  worse  shatter  your  bones. 
Your  horse  is  not  safe.  I  will  not  assume  the  responsibility 
of  such  a  step." 

He  took  hold  of  the  bridle  as  he  spoke,  and  attempted  to 
turn  the  horse  in  the  opposite  direction,  but  like  its  mistress 
it  had  a  strong  will,  and  resisted  his  guidance.  It  leaped, 
shook  its  mane  wrathfully,  and  at  length  darted  off  in  a  tan 
gent,  between  the  two  opposing  forces.  On  it  went,  tearing 
through  the  woods,  gnawing  against  the  trunks,  tossing  up 
clods  of  earth,  and  striking  fire  from  the  pebbles  with  its 
flying  hoofs.  Nora  had  no  more  control  over  him  now  than 
over  the  comet  darting  through  the  fields  of  air.  Henry  fol 
lowed,  though  he  could  not  keep  up  with  her  desperate  speed. 
He  saw  the  gleam  of  water  right  before  them;  he  knew  not 
how  deep  or  strong  the  current  might  be,  he  knew  not  if  a 
bridge  spanned  it,  but  whether  deep  or  strong  or  bridgeless, 
there  it  was  right  before  them,  and  they  were  rushing  on,  in  a 
downward  course,  as  if  borne  on  the  whirlwind's  wing. 

"  Nora !  Nora !"  he  shouted,  maddened  at  the  prospect  of 
her  danger,  which  he  was  unable  to  avert.  His  own  horse 
was  perfectly  under  his  control,  but  he  thought  only  of  follow 
ing  her.  On  she  went,  onward,  downward,  to  the  very  brink 
of  the  creek,  whose  current,  broad,  and  deep,  and  strong, 
flowed  over  a  rocky  channel,  as  its  name  declared.  Thunder 
bolt  checked  himself  a  moment  on  the  brink,  then  giving  a 
frightful  plunge,  almost  disappeared  from  Henry's  appalled 
gaze.  Nora  kept  her  seat,  though  only  her  arms  and  head 
were  above  the  water.  Her  hands  were  getting  numb  from 
the  straining  of  the  muscles,  and  her  face  was  white  as  marble ; 
but  she  still  held  the  reins  with  an  unrelaxing  grasp,  uncon 
scious  that  she  was  thus  accelerating  her  doom.  Dauntless  as 
she  was,  she  knew  that  death  was  beneath  her  in  those  cold, 
dark  waters,  and  shriek  after  shriek  burst  from  her  pale,  quiver 
ing  lips. 

Thunderbolt,  feeling  the  tightening  rein,  which  prevented 
22 


62  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

him  from  swimming,  writhed  frantically  in  the  water,  that 
foamed  and  seethed  round  his  fiery  and  snorting  nostrils,  while 
his  raven  mane  floated  on  the  waves ;  then  springing  up,  and 
rearing  his  head  upright,  his  eyes  rolling  through  the  spraj 
like  burning  coals,  he  plunged  down  again,  and  the  waters 
closed,  splashing,  dashing,  throwing  up  showers  of  foam,  above 
the  vortex  he  made.  All  this  was  the  work  of  a  moment,  and 
while  Henry  was  making  maddening  efforts  to  reach  and  save 
her.  He  saw  that,  instead  of  suffering  the  reins  to  float,  and. 
allowing  herself  to  be  drifted  along  on  the  swimming  animal, 
she  was  endeavouring  to  restrain  him,  making  him  doubly 
furious,  and  bringing  on  herself  inevitable  destruction. 

"Nora!  for  God's  sake,  let  go  the  bridle,  and  grasp  the 
mane !"  he  shouted,  the  sweat-drops  of  agony  bursting  out  on  his 
temples,  for  even  as  he  shouted  she  went  down,  as  in  a  boiling 
caldron.  Then  the  glimpse  of  a  green  plume  appeared  like 
a  leaf  upon  the  water,  the  black  head  and  reeking  mane  heaved 
up  into  sight,  and  Nora's  dripping  form  still  adhering  to  her 
terrible  seat.  "  Nora,  for  God's  sake,  hear  me !  Let  go  the 
bridle,  and  grasp  the  mane  V  loud  as  a  clarion's  tone,  rung  in 
her  drowning  ear.  Despairingly,  instinctively,  her  chill  hands 
loosened  from  the  rein,  and  clung  to  the  wet  tangles  of  the 
"  thunder-clothed"  mane.  Her  cold,  white  face  drooped  down 
on  the  coal-black  neck,  whose  tresses  now  streamed  like  a  ban 
ner  on  the  waves.  Passively,  almost  unconsciously,  she 
yielded  herself  to  her  fate,  feeling  that  mental  collapse  which 
follows  a  mighty  struggle.  Thunderbolt,  finding  himself  free, 
obeyed  like  his  mistress  the  instincts  of  nature,  and  swam  to 
the  shore,  stemming  the  current,  like  a  sea-born  steed. 

Nora,  stunned,  benumbed,  bewildered,  and  almost  uncon 
scious,  reeled  from  the  saddle  into  the  arms  of  Henry,  who 
had  reached  the  bank  almost  simultaneously,  and  sprang  from 
his  horse,  ready  to  receive  her.  Poor  Nora !  where  was  her 
fearless,  independent  spirit  now  ?  There  she  lay,  on  the  sandy 
bank,  her  head  supported  on  Henry's  arm,  her  misshapen  hat 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  63 

with  its  broken  feathers  fallen  at  her  feet,  the  long  folds  of 
her  dress,  saturated  and  dripping,  clinging  to  her  and  imprison 
ing  her  limbs,  reduced  to  the  helplessness  and  dependence  of 
infancy. 

Henry,  wet  and  dripping  himself,  kneeling  over  her,  with 
one  arm  confined  by  encircling  her  neck,  was  almost  as 
powerless  as  herself.  He  was  weak  from  the  strain,  the  ten 
sion,  the  struggle  of  the  last  few  moments,  and  he  looked 
down  on  Nora  with  a  face  as  pale  as  her  own.  As  he  had  not 
been  immersed  like  her,  his  fair  locks  waved  freely  round  his 
temples  in  all  their  native  grace  and  luxuriance.  When  Nora 
looked  up,  after  rubbing  her  eyes  to  clear  away  the  mist  that 
obscured  them,  and  saw  him  kneeling  by  her  so  protectingly 
and  gracefully,  while  the  echo  of  his  warning  accents  still 
resounded  in  her  ears,  his  countenance  expressive  of  the  most 
intense  feeling,  gratitude,  admiration,  and  sensibility  lighted 
up  her  every  feature,  and  diffused  over  them  the  softest  charm 
of  womanhood.  She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  shook  back 
her  drenched,  heavy  locks,  and  taking  up  Henry's  white  hand 
kerchief  with  which  he  had  wiped  the  moisture  from  her  lately 
deluged  face,  pressed  it  against  her  heart. 

Henry,  quite  transported  by  an  act  so  graceful  and  feeling, 
was  about  to  give  utterance  to  a  most  romantic  speech,  when 
the  wild,  versatile  creature  looked  down  upon  herself,  and 
burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Oh,  Nora !"  exclaimed  Henry,  perfectly  shocked ;  "  how 
can  you  laugh  so,  after  escaping  death  so  narrowly? — when 
every  nerve  in  my  frame  is  vibrating  yet,  and  will  long 
vibrate,  at  the  remembrance  of  the  danger  you  have  in 
curred?" 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  cried  Nora,  trying  to  look  sober,  while 
a  new  fountain  of  mirth  gushed  forth.  "  I  look  so — we  both 
look  so — so  funny.  See  my  hat, — what  an  object! — all 
mashed  and  squeezed  like  a  lemon.  But,  indeed,  indeed,  I 
am  grateful — grateful  to  Heaven  and  you.  Your  warning 


64  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

voice  saved  me.  Oh,  how  it  sounded !  how  it  rung  in  my 
ears,  as  I  came  up  from  the  cold,  cold  water.  I  thought  I 
was  going  down,  down,  down — oh,  it  was  awful !" 

Shuddering  and  trembling,  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands ;  her  bosom  heaved,  and  Henry  heard  the  sound  of  a 
suppressed  sob.  She  was  hysterical.  She  must  either  laugh 
or  cry,  and  of  the  two  it  seemed  more  decorous,  under  exist 
ing  circumstances,  to  do  the  last. 

"  Where  is  Thunderbolt?"  she  cried,  trying  to  spring  up; 
but  her  heavy  skirt  obliged  her  to  rise  very  demurely,  and 
not  without  Henry's  assistance.  "Where  is  the  horrible 
monster?" 

"  He  seems  to  be  drying  himself  in  the  sun,"  said  Henry, 
pointing  to  the  "  monster,"  where  he  stood  at  a  little  dis 
tance,  all  his  fury  spent,  his  sides  shining  and  quivering,  like 
the  water  in  which  his  image  was  reflected. 

"You  beautiful  tyrant,  fiend  angelical  I"  she  exclaimed;  "I 
thought  I  should  hate  you,  and  banish  you  forever;  but  I 
cannot  resist  your  fascinations.  Come  hither,  thou  repenting 
prodigal,  and  let  me  mount  thee.  Quick,  for  I  cannot  stand 
drying  myself  in  the  sun  like  you,  selfish  wretch  that  you 
are  I" 

"  You  will  not  mount  him  again  to-day,  Nora;  not  with 
my  permission." 

"  Your  permission  !  Really,  that  does  sound  authoritative. 
Do  you  know  to  whom  you  are  speaking?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  bright,  saucy,  bewitching  smile, 
as  if  defying  his  prohibition.  In  spite  of  her  soiled  and 
draggled  dress ;  her  wildly,  clinging  hair,  streaming  so  dark 
and  dishevelled  over  her  neck  and  shoulders,  she  looked  even 
radiantly  handsome.  Her  eyes  flashed  with  the  light  of 
excitement,  and  a  brilliant  colour  had  come  back  to  her 
cheeks. 

'•'  I  know  that  I  am  speaking  to  a  very  charming  but  wilful 
y^ung  lady,  whose  life  is  just  now  under  my  especial  charge. 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  65 

Nora,  you  must  ride  home  with  me.  I  shall  not  trust  you  by 
yourself  again." 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  make  such  a  ridiculous  figure  of 
myself  as  to  ride  home  behind  you, — in  this  costume,  too, — 
bareheaded  likewise  ?"  and  stooping  down,  she  picked  up  her 
poor  wreck  of  a  riding-cap,  and  tossed  it  into  the  creek. 
"  Why,  the  very  owls  would  come  forth  from  their  nests  to 
hoot  at  us." 

"  I  should  feel  prouder  than  I  ever  did  in  my  life,"  said 
Henry,  exultingly;  "  and  as  for  yourself,  you  never  looked 
half  as  handsome.  You  have  no  alternative,  and  a  graceful 
compliance  is  always  lovely  in  woman." 

A  strong  and  resolute  will  beamed  from  his  clear,  blue  eye, 
and  spoke  in  the  proud  curl  of  his  smiling  lips.  Perhaps 
Nora  had  really  been  too  much  frightened  to  wish  to  commit 
herself  again  to  Thunderbolt's  power;  perhaps  she  felt  more 
truly  than  she  had  ever  done  before  her  dependence  as  a  wo 
man,  and  her  accessibility  to  persuasion;  for  she  suffered 
Henry  to  take  her  hand,  and  lead  her  toward  his  horse, 
which  had  behaved  most  nobly  during  the  whole  of  the  ex 
citing  scene. 

As  Henry  turned  in  search  of  a  position  more  favourable 
than  the  one  at  present  occupied,  for  Nora  to  mount, — as  he  was 
compelled  to  take  his  seat  first,  in  spite  of  his  chivalry  of  feel 
ing, — Kobert  came  galloping  to  the  spot,  the  Black  Warrior 
flushed  with  the  foam  of  speed. 

"  Thank  heaven !  you  are  safe,"  he  cried,  understanding 
from  the  first  glance  the  danger  they  had  incurred  and  es 
caped.  "  Thank  heaven !  it  is  no  worse." 

"  What  have  you  done  with  Julia?"  asked  Henry.  "Surely 
no  accident  has  befallen  her?" 

"  I  left  her  in  the  forest  shades,  while  I  came  to  relieve  her 
anxiety  on  your  account." 

"  Let  us  hasten,  then,"  said  Henry,  "  for  I  know  her  poor, 
little  coward  heart  is  palpitating  with  untold  fears.  Assist 


66  ROBERT   GRAHAM  I 

Nora  to  take  a  seat  behind  me.  Can  you  not  lead  Thunder- 
oolt  by  the  bridle  ?  He  is  subdued  now." 

Yes;  he  was  subdued.  Nora  turned  away,  quick  as  light 
ning,  smiles  kindling  in  her  eyes.  He  was  gentle  now. 
Henry  had  said  so.  It  was  enough.  The  water  had  quenched 
his  blazing  spirit,  and,  after  all,  he  was  a  glorious  beast !  It 
is  impossible  to  describe  the  mortification  she  had  felt,  when 
Robert  approached  to  assist  her  in  mounting,  as  Henry  directed. 
She  was  a  dethroned  queen — a  Zenobia,  bound  in  golden 
chains  to  Aurelian's  chariot  wheels.  What!  ride  home  be 
hind  a  young  gentleman  whose  horsemanship  she  had  dared 
to  question,  while  to  his  superior  knowledge  of  the  art  she 
owed  the  salvation  of  her  life,  with  her  arm  tucked  tight 
round  his  waist,  her  feet  swinging  out  of  the  stirrups,  like  a 
country  market  girl !  No,  indeed ;  not  she. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  resuming  her  gay,  undaunted  air;  "he 
says  right.  He  is  manageable  now.  I  will  ride  him.  Lead 
him  hither,  if  you  please,  Robert,  and  I  will  show  him  that  he 
has  not  made  me  a  craven  yet." 

Robert,  believing  that  there  was  no  danger  of  his  running 
away  again,  and  knowing  that  Nora  would  have  her  own  way, 
obeyed  her  mandate,  while  he  could  not  help  smiling  at 
Henry's  disconcerted  countenance. 

"  Ah !  Graham,"  exclaimed  he,  as  Nora  nodded  triumph 
antly  at  him,  enthroned  once  more  on  Thunderbolt's  back ; 
"  you  have  robbed  me  of  my  well-earned  honours.  Why  did 
you  come,  at  the  moment  of  victory,  to  snatch  from  me  such 
a  glorious  trophy  ?" 

"  To  win  from  me  ten  thousand  thanks,"  said  Nora.  "His 
confidence  is  not  shaken  by  my  temporary  downfall.  I  will 
not  abuse  it,  but  hold  the  reins  with  a  hand  as  kind  and  gentle 
as  Julia's.  Go  on,  and  let  me  follow  for  once  in  my  life." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  decide  which  was  the  more  amiable 
and  docile  during  their  homeward  ride,  Thunderbolt  or  his 
unstress.  As  they  approached  the  spot  where  Julia  sat  on 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  67 

the  old  gray  trunk,  she  leaned  forward  and  touched  Robert  on 
the  arm. 

"  Ride  slowly.     What  a  beautiful,  beautiful  picture  I" 

It  was  beautiful.  The  ancient,  picturesque  seat;  the  fair, 
young  figure,  whose  garments  of  flowing  blue  contrasted 
charmingly  with,  the  dim  hue  of  the  bark;  the  milk-white 
steed,  patiently  waiting  in  the  evergreen  shade  close  by ;  the 
soft,  mellow  brightness  of  the  autumnal  heavens ;  the  misty 
splendour  of  the  Indian-summer  atmosphere ;  the  deep  qui 
etude  and  loneliness  of  the  spot — all  harmonized  so  perfectly, 
and  formed  a  scene  so  lovely  and  serene,  it  seemed  a  pity  to 
disturb  it  by  the  sound  of  trampling  hoofs  and  the  echo 
of  human  voices. 

These  sounds,  however,  were  music  to  Julia's  waiting  ears. 
The  grandeur  of  the  forest  solitude  oppressed  her.  The  deep, 
monotonous  murmur  of  the  rustling  pines,  so  like  the  distant 
roaring  of  the  ocean  surf;  the  "  boundless  contiguity  of  shade," 
girdling  the  horizon ;  the  quick,  audible  pulsations  of  her  own 
heart — conveyed  to  her  the  idea  of  unceasing  sound,  immea 
surable  space,  and  eternal  restlessness. 

The  quick  and  ever-dancing  current  of  Nora's  veins  and 
the  exercise  of  managing  Thunderbolt, — who,  in  his  most 
quiescent  state,  seemed  charged  with  electricity, — neutralized 
the  effect  of  her  cold  bath.  She  laughed  at  Julia's  terror  lest 
Henry  and  herself  should  catch  a  death-cold,  and  rode  on 
through  the  shades  that  seemed  to  melt  away  before  her 
brightness, — an  occasional  sunbeam  struggling  through  and 
glancing  on  her  long,  black  hair,  that  flowed  like  a  satin 
mantle  round  her.  When  she  came  to  Pine  Grove  she 
accelerated  her  pace,  and  went  dashing  up  to  the  door  in  her 
usual  wild  way ;  and  the  negroes  thought  she  had  only  taken 
off  her  hat  in  a  frolic. 

"  Is  not  this  better  than  following  your  advice  ?"  said  she 
to  Henry,  jumping  from  her  horse  before  he  had  time  to  assist 
her. 


68  ROBERT    GRAHAM  : 

"  Which  do  you  believe  was  my  object?"  he  asked;  " your 
safety,  or  my  triumph  ?" 

"  Both,  if  I  can  read  countenances  right." 

"  Well ;  the  first  is  achieved,  and  I  rejoice.  The  last  will 
yet  be  accomplished." 

Thus  lightly  talking,  but  deeply  feeling,  the  two  rescued 
ones  crossed  the  threshold. 


CHAPTER   V. 

TIME  glided  rapidly  away  at  Pine  Grove,  and  the  Northern 
travellers  spoke  of  renewing  their  journey. 

"  Remain  a  little  longer,"  was  the  invariable  reply  when 
Henry  mentioned  the  necessity  of  leaving.  "  The  weather  is 
so  delightful,  so  balmy,  there  is  no  need  of  seeking  a  warmer 
latitude.  Spend  your  Indian  summer  here,  and  then  it  will 
be  time  enough  to  wend  your  way  to  Louisiana's  more  southern 
bowers.  Your  sister  is  gaining  strength  and  colour  from  day 
to  day." 

"But  you  are  going  with  us !"  said  Henry;  "we  shall  not 
be  separated.  Your  step-sister  will  hardly  give  us  a  welcome, 
if,  by  our  longer  stay  here,  we  deprive  her  of  the  happiness 
of  seeing  you." 

Julia  no  longer  looked  at  Robert  when  the  name  of  Linda 
was  mentioned.  A  feeling  that  she  could  not  define  made 
her  involuntarily  avert  her  eyes,  and  repress  the  rising  sigh. 
She  would  gladly  have  responded  to  the  wish,  that  their  stay 
might  be  prolonged,  but  she  dared  not  do  so,  fearing  it  would 
be  thought  forward  and  bold.  She  had  become  so  happy 
where  she  was.  Robert  was  so  kind  and  attentive,  so  thought 
ful  of  her  health,  so  lenient  to  her  weakness  and  fears,  and 
all  the  time  her  soul  was  rising  and  enlarging  so  under  his 


A   SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  69 

powerful  influence ;  she  never  thought  of  her  heart,  but  she 
knew  that  he  was  the  master  of  her  soul.  Strange,  but  she 
felt  such  a  shrinking  at  the  thought  of  meeting  Linda,  whom 
at  first,  if  she  had  had  wings,  she  would  have  flown  to  behold. 
Was  it  a  fear  of  losing  those  daily  assiduities  which  seemed 
DOW  a  part  of  her  existence  ?  Was  it  the  dread  of  being  sup 
planted,  annihilated,  forgotten  ?  Oh,  no ;  Linda,  the  wife  of 
another,  could  never  be  looked  upon  as  a  rival.  The  high- 
principled  and  religious  Robert  would  despise  her  for  such  a 
suggestion. 

And  did  not  Robert  really  wish  to  hasten  the  moment,  when 
he  should  meet  once  more  her  whom  he  had  so  madly  loved, 
so  magnanimously  renounced  ?  Were  the  remembrances, 
which  had  swept  over  him  like  a  mighty  wind  while  kneeling 
by  his  mother's  tomb,  gone  with  the  night-breeze  which  then 
fanned  his  brow  ?  Had  the  impression  made  by  the  fair  and 
gentle  stranger  effaced  those  prints  on  the  sands  of  memory 
which  seemed  indelible  as  traces  graven  on  steel  or  granite  ? 
No !  Robert  had  loved  Linda,  as  only  the  strong  in  mind,  the 
vehement  in  passion,  the  warm  in  heart,  the  serious,  the 
earnest,  the  really  heroic  can  love ;  and  such  love  is  never  for 
gotten.  It  was  a  golden  cable  too  strong  to  be  broken,  too 
indestructible  for  decay;  a  sheet-anchor  to  which  even  in 
death  his  spirit  would  cling.  But  this  love  was  now  purified 
from  the  dross  of  passion  or  the  alloy  of  selfishness.  He  himself 
had  united  her  to  Roland  Lee,  and  never  for  one  moment  had 
he  regretted  an  act  consecrated  by  feelings  of  sublime  self-sacri 
fice.  He  had  departed  immediately  to  a  distant  clime  with 
his  spiritual  father,  the  excellent  and  beloved  Rayner,  and 
entered  at  once  on  the  labours  of  a  missionary  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  and  passion  of  his  nature.  In  the  zeal  of  the 
Christian  he  merged  the  disappointments  of  the  man,  and  in 
fervent  aspirations  to  heaven  ceased  to  murmur  at  the  dispen 
sations  which  had  blighted  the  hopes  of  his  opening  manhood. 

He  came  back  to  the  home  of  his  youth,  and  the  conscious- 


70  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

ness  of  his  lonely  fate  pressed  coldly  and  heavily  on  his  heart. 
He  believed  himself  cut  off  forever  from  the  genial  sympathies 
and  tender  charities  of  domestic  and  social  life  by  the  Bastile 
bars  of  an  iron  destiny.  As  if  under  the  especial  direction  of  a 
relenting  Providence,  a  being  came  to  cheer  by  woman's  sweet 
est  attributes  his  joyless  home.  She  stole  so  gently  on  his 
interest,  he  was  hardly  aware  of  it,  save  by  the  void  he  felt 
in  her  absence.  So  modest  and  unobtrusive,  so  delicate  and 
sensitive,  so  childlike  and  yet  so  womanly,  she  twined  herself 
round  the  rougher  frame  of  his  character,  like  the  slender 
tendrils  of  the  vine,  whose  fibres,  at  first  so  frail  and  light  as 
to  be  agitated  by  a  breath,  become  strong  and  inflexible  as 
oak.  He  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  inspire  love  in, 
woman.  He  thought  there  was  something  repelling  in  him 
that  distanced  love.  But  he  could  not  help  perceiving  that 
Julia's  beautiful  blue  eyes  kindled  into  brighter  radiance  at 
his  approach,  and  that  her  cheek,  usually  as  pale  and  pure  as 
her  own  Northern  snows,  then  glowed  with  a  rose-colour  coining 
and  going  and  coming  again,  messenger  of  the  bashful  heart. 
He  could  not  help  being  conscious,  that  whenever  he  spoke, 
she  always  listened,  though  others  might  be  talking  louder 
and  nearer ;  that  the  simplest  act  of  courtesy  from  him  was 
received  with  grateful  emotions;  and  that  in  all  her  bearing  to 
him  there  was  a  grace,  a  deference,  a  humility,  combined  with 
a  confidence  and  simplicity  the  most  flattering  and  winning  to 
the  proud,  protecting  nature  of  man.  This  consciousness  dif 
fused  a  serene  delight  in  his  bosom,  as  different  from  his  former 
impassioned  emotions  as  a  lake  sleeping  in  the  silver  moon 
light  is  from  the  thundering  cataract  of  Niagara.  They  could 
not  be  derived  from  the  same  source.  He  was  now  tasting 
the  purest  joys  of  friendship,  and  surely  it  was  better  to  re 
main  where  he  was,  where  every  thing  around  favoured  its 
growth,  than  seek  those  scenes,  where  former  associations 
might  resume  their  power,  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  present  soul- 
felt  peace. 


A   SEQUEL  TO   LINDA.  71 

He  had  written  to  Linda,  soon  after  the  arrival  of  the  travel 
lers,  telling  her  of  the  invitation  he  had  given  them ;  and  an 
answer  came,  urging  him  to  come  and  bring  his  friends,  with 
a  warmth  and  sincerity  which  left  them  in  no  doubt  of  the 
welcome  that  awaited  them.  She  told  him  that  Roland  was  to 
leave  her  soon  for  a  long  voyage,  that  he  must  hasten  to  mee 
him  before  his  departure;  that  she  longed  to  show  him  he* 
beautiful  boy,  who,  although  but  twelve  months  old,  already 
could  lisp  the  name  of  Robert.  The  purest  sentiments  of  con 
jugal  and  maternal  love  animated  every  line,  yet  they  were  ex 
pressed  with  a  guarded  delicacy,  as  if  unwilling  to  dwell  on  a 
happiness  for  which  he  had  once  sighed — Linda,  a  wife,  mother, 
sister.  This  beautiful,  holy  trinity  of  character  he  contemplated 
with  the  same  feelings  of  reverence  with  which  he  had  gazed  on 
Raphael's  exquisite  picture  of  the  holy  family.  He  made  the 
necessary  preparations  for  their  journey.  Mr.  Marshall  con 
sented  that  Nora  should  accompany  them ;  so  it  was  arranged 
that  they  should  leave  Pine  Grove  in  a  few  days  after  the  re 
ception  of  the  letter. 

The  Sunday  morning  before  their  departure,  when  they 
rose  from  the  breakfast-table,  Robert  mentioned  that  he  was 
going  to  Mount  Zion,  a  church  literally  planted  in  the  wilder 
ness,  where  the  scattered  inhabitants  of  that  section  of  the 
country  met  in  the  bosom  of  the  forest  shades,  after  the  man 
ner  of  the  primitive  Christians,  to  praise  and  worship  God. 
The  pulpit  was  supplied  by  itinerant  preachers,  but  this  Sun 
day  Robert  was  to  officiate  in  the  sacred  desk. 

"Would  his  friends  like  to  accompany  him?  There  was  a 
carriage  road,  though  rather  a  rough  one.  The  young  ladies 
could  go  in  a  carriage,  Henry  and  himself  on  horseback, 
or  they  could  all  ride  on  horseback.  It  might  be  interesting 
to  those  accustomed  to  the  splendid  churches  of  the  Northern 
cities,  to  see  the  simple  manner  in  which  Southern  planters 
sometimes  worship  Him  'whom  the  heaven  of  heavens  can 
not  contain,  much  less  a  temple  made  with  hands.'  " 


t  2  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

They  all  expressed  an  eager  desire  to  go.  Nora  was  for 
riding  on  horseback,  notwithstanding  her  recent  experience; 
but  when  she  found  Thunderbolt  was  to  be  excluded,  as  too 
much  of  a  heathen  to  attend  a  Sabbath  party,  she  coincided 
with  Julia  in  a  preference  for  the  carriage. 

To  Julia  the  scene  had  all  the  attraction  of  novelty,  as  well 
as  the  interest  of  a  religious  ceremony;  and,  above  all,  she  was 
to  see  Robert  standing  as  the  representative  of  his  divine 
Master,  in  the  beauty  of  holiness,  as  in  the  glory  of  manhood. 

The  church  was  a  simple,  rustic  structure,  erected  near  a 
grove  of  oaks,  in  the  heart  of  the  pine  woods.  It  looked  like 
a  small  dwelling-house,  for  no  swelling  dome  or  rising  spire 
indicated  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  erected.  No  bell  rang 
through  the  green  forest-aisles,  to  call  the  worshippers  to 
gether.  It  reminded  one  of  a  tent,  pitched  by  the  wayfaring 
man,  as  a  temporary  rest  in  the  wilderness  of  life. 

On  this  Sunday,  arrangements  had  been  made  for  the  ac 
commodation  of  a  larger  audience  than  could  find  admission  in 
that  little  church.  The  desire  to  hear  the  young  missionary, 
whose  name  was  encircled  by  a  halo  of  renown,  gathered  to 
gether  a  numerous  and  promiscuous  assembly.  They  came 
from  the  four  points  of  the  compass :  some  rolling  in  splendid 
carriages,  others  walking  in  the  humblest  attire;  the  wealthy 
planter,  and  the  lowly  slave;  the  representatives  of  the  dif 
ferent  ranks  in  life,  to  meet  in  a  spot  where  the  distinctions 
of  society  present  no  barrier  to  the  mighty  sweeping  of  God's 
Almighty  Spirit.  The  walls  of  the  church  could  not  hold 
that  band  of  worshippers.  Anticipating  the  dearth  of  room, 
labourers  had  been  employed  the  previous  day  to  convert  the 
oaken  grove  into  a  temporary  temple.  A  pulpit,  constructed 
of  rude  boards,  beneath  one  of  the  largest  and  grandest  trees, 
with  the  magnificent  heavens  for  a  sounding  board,  and  the 
waving  foliage  for  the  drapery  of  the  altar,  was  the  most 
striking  feature  of  this  rural  cathedral.  Seats,  arranged  in  a 
semicircular  manner;  extended  far  back  into  the  shade.  Those 


»  A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  73 

near  the  pulpit  were  brought  from  the  church;  the  others 
were  made  of  planks,  laid  across  stakes  driven  into  the  ground; 
and  even  an  old,  fallen  tree,  in  the  back  ground,  was  converted 
to  the  same  use.  Negro  children  were  perched,  like  crows, 
upon  the  branches,  exulting  in  their  transient  elevation. 

Nora,  who  was  accustomed  to  the  arrangements  at  the  camp- 
leetings  of  the  South,  saw  nothing  new  or  picturesque  in  the 
scene.  She  was  glad,  for  her  free  spirit  always  chafed  in  a  crowd, 
and  rejoiced  in  the  open  air.  But  Julia  gazed  around  her  in  won 
der  and  excitement.  Every  thing  was  new  and  picturesque  to 
her.  In  passing  through  New  York,  she  had  attended  divine 
service  at  Trinity  church,  and  her  spirit  had  bowed  in  reverence 
before  the  majesty  of  its  architectural  grandeur;  the  gorgeous, 
yet  subdued  light,  streaming  in  through  the  richly-stained  glass, 
then  floating  up  in  the  shadows  of  the  continuous  arches  of  so 
lemn  gray;  the  deep  thunder  of  its  massy  organ,  rolling  in  amid 
the  loud  anthem  strains  of  human  voices,  oppressed  her  with 
an  overpowering  sense  of  magnificence.  She  was  seated  at  a 
distance  from  the  minister,  whose  accents  seemed  lost  in  the 
grand  infinitude  of  space.  Finding  it  in  vain  to  follow  his 
discourse,  she  had  yielded  herself  to  the  influences  around 
her,  and  found  sermons  in  the  "  long-drawn  aisles,  the  fretted 
vaults,"  the  glowing  dyes  of  the  painted  windows,  and  in  the 
height,  the  length,  the  depth  of  the  massy  walls. 

While  riding  through  the  woods,  and  thinking  of  Robert  as 
the  officiating  minister,  she  located  him  in  imagination  in  that 
magnificent  church,  and  thought  how  nobly  he  would  assimi 
late  to  its  grandeur  and  its  grace.  She  did  not  like  the  idea 
of  his  preaching  in  a  rude  place,  to  an  audience,  the  majority 
of  which  must  be  unlettered,  if  not  ignorant.  Anybody  that 
was  pious,  she  thought,  might  fill  such  an  office;  but  he  was 
destined  for  a  loftier  sphere. 

When  she  entered  the  grove,  a  reaction  took  place  in  her  feei- 
ings.  There  was  a  novelty,  a  wildness  and  simplicity  in  the 
scene,  that  shamed  the  gaudier  grandeur  of  art.  The  congro 


74  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

gation  were  singing,  while  waiting  the  coming  of  the  minister, 
not  the  pealing  anthem  or  the  Gloria  in  excelsis,  whose  notes 
are  confined  to  the  choristers,  but  a  hymn,  set  to  a  simple, 
affecting  air,  in  which  every  one  seemed  to  join  as  with  one 
heart  and  soul.  There  might  be  discords,  grating  to  the  mu 
sician's  ear, — for  the  quavering  voice  of  age  was  heard,  strained 
to  its  highest  pitch,  and  the  sweet,  but  untutored  strains  of 
the  African  mingled  in  the  chorus.  But  there  was  such  a 
sound  of  deep  heart-worship  in  it — they  seemed  so  happy,  so 
adoring,  as  they  sang,  that  Julia  felt  as  if  it  were  such  music 
the  apostle  meant,  when  he  told  his  disciples  "  to  sing  with 
the  spirit  and  the  understanding  also." 

"What  horrible  singing !"  whispered  Nora;  "lam  ashamed 
of  it.  That  old  man  always  will  let  out  his  voice  like  a  screech- 
owl;  he  ought  to  be  muffled." 

Julia  answered  only  with  a  reproachful  glance.  She  was 
quite  grieved  at  Nora's  levity.  That  old  man,  who  stood  up 
near  the  pulpit,  and  whose  voice  predominated  over  the  others, 
had  attracted  her  especial  reverence.  He  looked  so  aged  and 
infirm,  so  worn,  so  bent, — his  few  hoary,  wintry  locks  scattered 
in  smooth,  white  flakes  over  his  sunken  temples, — it  was  evi 
dent  he  was  near  the  end  of  a  long  and  weary  pilgrimage. 
Yet  all  the  time  he  was  singing  in  a  broken,  trembling  voice, 
that  seemed  to  gather  strength  as  he  went  on,  an  expression 
of  ecstatic  delight  gleamed  from  his  faded  eyes,  and  played 
round  his  withered  but  placid  lips. 

"  Oh !  how  differently  people  feel,"  thought  Julia,  her  eyes 
filling  with  tears  at  this  touching  picture  of  age  and  devotion; 
and  yet  a  moment  after,  every  one  seemed  moved  by  a  com 
mon  impulse,  and  turned  toward  the  young  minister,  who  now 
ascended  the  pulpit,  and  opened  the  sacred  volume.  The 
music  ceased,  and  a  soft,  solemn  hush  settled  on  the  con 
gregation. 

"How  handsome  he  looks  I"  again  whispered  Nora;  but 
Julia  scarcely  heard  her  this  time.  She  had  been  waiting 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  75 

this  moment  with  eager  expectation,  and  now  she  wished  it 
had  not  arrived.  She  felt  guilty  before  God,  in  feeling  such 
homage  for  the  creature  in  the  presence-chamber  of  the 
King  of  kings.  Casting  one  glance  where  he  stood,  his  dark 
hair  relieved  and  crowned,  as  it  were,  by  the  deep-green  fo- 
1'age,  she  drew  her  veil  over  her  face,  fearing  it  was  but  too 
faithful  a  mirror  to  his  soul.  The  first  words  he  uttered  were 
those  the  announcing  angels  breathed  to  the  Chaldean  shep 
herds,  while  watching  their  flocks  beneath  the  starry  mid 
night- — 

"  Glory  to  God  on  high — on  earth  peace — and  good-will  to 
men !" 

It  seemed  to  Julia  that  the  sound  of  many  waters  was  in 
her  ear,  in  the  confusion  of  her  high-wrought  feeling ;  but  it 
was  not  long  before  the  deep,  sweet,  and  solemn  voice  of  the 
speaker  assuaged  the  tumult  of  her  thoughts,  and  raised 
them  to  loftier  tone.  He  read  the  Scriptures  as  she  had 
never  heard  them  read  before.  Truths,  often  repeated,  as 
sumed  new  power  and  majesty,  and  seemed  clothed  with  a 
more  divine  authority.  He  opened  their  meaning  with  the 
silver  key  of  eloquence,  and  golden  treasures,  hid  before, 
glowed  on  the  spiritual  vision. 

He  prayed,  and  Julia's  spirit  bowed  with  his  before  the 
mercy-seat.  Never  had  she  felt  such  deep  prostration,  such 
humility  and  self-abasement.  The  whole  congregation  knelt. 
At  first  there  was  a  rustling  sound,  like  leaves  agitated  by  the 
wind,  then  a  silence,  and  then  the  low,  invoking  accents, 
such  as, — 

"  Listening  angels  lean  from  heaven  to  hear." 

It  was  the  man  addressing  the  Creator,  the  sinner  pleading  for 
pardon,  the  penitent  supplicating  for  grace  and  acceptance. 
Gradually  his  voice  rose  to  the  full  and  swelling  strains  of 
adoration  and  praise.  It  was  the  believer  rejoicing  in  the 
confidence  of  faith, — the  Christian  exulting  in  the  hope  of  glory 


76  ROBERT  GRAHAM  *. 

Julia  bowed  her  veiled  face  on  her  clasped  hands,  and  her 
tears  fell  fast  as  rain.  All  the  wants  of  her  being  were  ex 
pressed  in  that  fervent  prayer.  The  vail  of  the  temple  of  her 
soul  seemed  rent,  and  glimpses  of  the  divine  nature,  unseen 
before,  gleamed  upon  it  in  rays  of  divine  glory.  Every 
now  and  then  she  heard  the  trembling,  broken  voice  of 
the  old  man  pronounce  an  emphatic  "Amen!"  and  other 
voices  more  sonorous  repeated  the  sound.  And  sometimes 
they  cried  out  "Hallelujah!"  in  an  irrepressible  burst  of  de 
votion. 

Tears  falling  from  the  eyes  of  prayer  are  the  dew  of  the 
heart,  preparing  and  softening  it  for  the  reception  of  heavenly 
truths.  The  subject  of  the  sermon  was  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
and  him  crucified.  He  commenced  with  the  Babe  of  Bethle 
hem,  wrapped  in  the  swaddling-bands  of  humanity,  lying  in 
the  manger  of  humiliation,  lowly  and  unregarded  as  the  beasts 
of  the  stall.  It  was  a  familiar  theme ;  but  he  presented  it  to 
the  mind  as  a  new  and  wondrous  picture.  Certainly  there  is 
an  inspiration  imparted  by  the  power  of  religion,  which  flows 
over  the  spirit  like  a  baptism  of  fire,  burning  up  the  dry  wood 
and  stubble  of  worldly  prejudices,  and  clearing  away  the  mists 
of  self-delusion.  Julia  had  heard  before  the  story  of  her 
Saviour's  sufferings ;  she  had  dwelt  upon  it  day  after  day,  till  it 
had  become  a  part  of  her  memory, — even  the  words  of  the  evan 
gelists  in  their  separate  narrations.  But  now  she  was  eye 
witness  to  the  scenes  from  the  dawn  of  his  incarnation  till  the 
sun  of  his  humanity  set  in  blood  behind  the  Mount  of  Calvary. 
She  wandered  with  her  Saviour  by  Kedron's  lonely  stream, 
wept  with  him  in  Gethsemane's  midnight  shades,  and  bowed 
in  agony  at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  For  the  first  time  in  hei 
life  she  felt  willing  to  die,  because  her  Saviour  had  died.  The 
grave  seemed  a  hallowed  .place  because  his  sacred  body  had 
lain  there,  and  life  precious  because  the  print  of  his  footsteps 
were  traced  on  its  barren  sands. 

After  tne  close  of  the  sermon,  Robert  came  down  from  the 


A   SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  77 

pulpit,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  church  to  which  he 
belonged,  when  the  Spirit  of  God  seemed  brooding  over  the 
throng,  and  invited  those  who  were  borne  down  with  the  bur 
den  of  their  sins  to  come  and  kneel  before  the  altar,  seeking 
Him  whose  yoke  is  easy  and  whose  burden  is  light. 

Julia  had  never  listened  to  a  similar  invitation,  and  it  ap 
peared  to  be  addressed  peculiarly  to  herself.  She  was  very 
near  the  altar,  and  as  she  looked  up  she  met  the  eyes  of  Ro 
bert — those  dark,  prophet  eyes,  softened  by  human  sympathy 
and  kindred  feeling.  She  saw  others  crowding  forward  and 
prostrating  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  she  longed  to  press 
forward  too ;  but  her  feet  seemed  glued  to  the  earth.  The 
congregation  burst  forth  into  a  hymn  of  adjuration,  and  now 
she  could  distinguish  the  voice  of  Robert,  like  the  swell  of  an 
organ,  above  the  ruder  strains.  And  this  was  the  burden  of 
the  hymn, — 

"  Come,  ye  sinners,  poor  and  needy, 

Weak  and  wounded,  sick  and  sore  j 
Jesus  ready  stands  to  save  you, 
Full  of  pity,  love,  and  power. 

He  is  able, 
He  is  willing,  doubt  no  more." 

Unable  any  longer  to  resist  the  strong,  invisible  chord  that 
drew  her  forward,  she  rose,  and  advancing  a  few  steps,  knelt 
behind  one  who  overshadowed  her  by  her  flowing  drapery. 
As  the  bark,  fastened  to  the  strand,  while  it  floats  upon  the 
water,  the  moment  its  cable  is  cut,  is  wafted  into  a  deeper  cur 
rent,  and  rides  upon  the  sea,  her  soul  was  borne  onward,  wave 
after  wave,  with  a  feeling  of  such  sweet  security,  she  could 
have  closed  her  eyes  in  a  peaceful  sleep.  She  was  consciou 
that  some  one  knelt  at  her  side,  but  she  knew  not  who  it  was, 
till  she  heard  the  voice  of  the  young  minister ;  and  though  he 
breathed  no  name,  she  knew  he  was  bearing  her  upward  on 
the  wings  of  prayer,  and  laying  her  gently  at  the  Saviour's  feet. 
In  that  hour  of  divine  communion,  Julia  experienced  an 
earnest  of  the  joys  of  heaven.  The  arms  of  his  Spirit  were 
23 


78  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

around  her,  sustaining  her  weakness  in  their  divine  embrace. 
The  murmur  of  many  voices  were  in  her  ear,  prayers  and 
hymns  mingling  together,  making  a  kind  of  wild  melody;  yet 
she  heard  only  the  low,  thrilling  accents,  that  seemed  the 
utterance  of  her  own  soul.  She  remained  thus,  with  her  head 
bowed  on  her  hands,  unconscious  how  the  moments  were  pass 
ing,  when  some  one  gently  raised  and  led  her  from  the  altar. 
It  was  her  brother,  who  had  been  watching  her  with  intense 
solicitude,  fearing  the  effect  of  such  a  high-wrought  state  of 
feeling.  He  did  not  wonder  at  her  being  carried  away  by  an 
eloquence  surpassing  any  he  had  ever  heard,  but  he  was  sorry 
to  see  her  giving  so  public  a  manifestation  of  her  sensibility. 
All  his  early  prejudices  were  opposed  to  enthusiasm  and  demon 
stration  in  religion,  and  he  was  disconcerted  and  annoyed  that 
Julia,  the  most  modest,  sensitive,  and  retiring  of  human  beings, 
should  thus  break  through  the  restraints  of  education,  and 
throw  herself  publicly  into  what,  he  believed,  the  vortex  of 
excitement.  A  member  of  the  Episcopal  church,  and  accus 
tomed,  from  earliest  childhood,  to  its  splendid  and  imposing 
ritual,  its  grand  and  solemn  services,  that  succeed  each  other 
in  stately  uniformity  like  the  footsteps  of  an  armed  host,  it  is 
not  strange  that  he  should  deem  these  outbursts  of  feeling 
inconsistent  with  the  dignity  of  an  established  form  of  public 
worship. 

He  hurried  her  to  the  carriage,  in  which  Nora  was  already 
seated.  A  very  dark  cloud  was  hovering  overhead,  unob 
served  by  the  pre- occupied  Julia,  but  which  Nora  had  been 
impatiently  watching.  As  Robert  was  still  surrounded  by  an 
nthusiastic  crowd,  from  which  he  would  not,  if  he  could,  break 
oose,  Henry  gave  directions  to  the  driver  to  go  on,  while  he 
waited  for  his  friend. 

Julia  leaned  back  in  the  carriage  perfectly  exhausted ;  but 
though  her  face  was  colourless,  her  countenance  shone  radiantly 
through  her  veil.  She  had  come  down  from  the  mount,  but 
the  reflection  of  the  Invisible  glory  was  lingering  on  her 


A   SEQUEL   TO  LINDA.  79 

brow.     Nora  leaned  kindly  over  her,  and  folded  her  shawl 
closely  over  her  bosom. 

"You  will  take  cold/'  she  said;  "the  air  is  become  very 
chill,  and  the  rain  already  begins  to  patter  against  the  car 
riage  windows.  Those  people  are  crazy  who  stay  behind  in  the 
grove.  They  will  get  drenched  through  and  through." 

"  How  strange/'  replied  Julia,  looking  up  with  surprise  to 
the  darkened  heavens.  "I  thought  it  was  bright  sunshine  and 
blue  sky.  When  did  this  cloud  arise?" 

"  You  have  been  in  the  upper  regions/'  said  Nora,  smiling. 
"We,  poor  souls,  who  stayed  below,  saw  the  gathering  vapours. 
Oh,  Julia,  I  wish  I  could  feel  as  you  do ;  but  I  believe  my 
heart  is  as  hard  as  the  nether  millstone." 

"No,  Nora,  you  belie  yourself.  You  have  been  weeping, 
and  even  now  your  eyes  are  filled  with  unshed  tears.  Surely 
there  is  no  shame  in  being  moved  by  a  subject  so  grand,  so 
glorious,  yet  so  seldom  brought  before  us." 

"  You  mean  in  such  a  manner,"  said  Nora.  "I  never  heard 
so  eloquent  a  sermon.  I  believe  now  Robert  Graham  is  a 
Christian.  I  never  have  before.  No  man  could  speak  or  pray 
or  look  as  he  does,  unless  he  were  true  and  earnest.  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  say  he  made  me  weep,  and  almost  persuaded  me  to 
prostrate  myself,  as  you  did,  in  the  dust  of  humiliation.  But 
ever  since  I  could  go  alone,  I  have  heard  myself  called  such  a 
wicked,  vile  sinner,  and  threatened  with  being  sent  to  such  an 
awful  place,  that,  as  I  told  you,  I  have  become  hardened.  I 
know  I  am  not  good,  but  I  cannot  believe  that  I  am  such  a 
horrible  wretch  as  they  make  me  out  to  be." 

"I  am  sure  Mr.  Graham  used  no  such  dreadful  denuncia 
tions/'  said  Julia.  "He  used  the  language  of  persuasiveness 
and  love." 

"Yes,"  replied  Nora;  "if  I  ever  become  a  Christian,  it  will 
be  through  the  influence  of  such  sermons.  Oh !"  she  added 
seriously,  "there  must  be  something  divine  in  religion,  to 
change  so  entirely  the  character  of  Hubert  Graham.  Think  of 


80  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

the  lion  transformed  into  the  lamb,  the  hawk  to  the  dove,  the 
northern  tempest  to  the  summer  zephyr,  and  you  can  hardly 
imagine  a  more  miraculous  change.  Yes,  think  of  Nora  Mar 
shall  turned  into  Julia  Bellenden,  and  it  would  be  a  more 
wondrous  contrast." 

"I  do  not  know  if  my  present  feelings  will  last,"  said  Julia, 
endeavouring  to  realize  the  change  described  by  Nora,  but  in 
vain.  One  pure  and  brilliant  image  presented  itself  to  the  ex 
clusion  of  every  other.  "  But  if  they  do  pass  away,  I  shall 
never,  never  forget  them,  and  they  will  return  to  me  again  in 
my  dying  hour.  I  have  always  thought,  Nora,  that  I  should 
die  young.  It  requires  no  soothsayer  but  these  prophetic 
beatings,"  cried  she,  laying  her  hand  on  her  too-quickly  palpi- 
tating  heart,  "to  tell  me  this,  and  I  have  shrunk  from  the 
thought  of  death  as  naturally  as  our  pale  spring-flowers  from 
the  stormy  winds  of  March.  The  darkness  and  loneliness  of 
the  grave  appalled  me.  Eternity  crushed  me  with  its  grand 
eur  and  mystery.  But  to-day,  I  have  realized  what  I  can 
never  describe.  I  have  tasted  a  peace  that  passeth  understand 
ing,  a  joy  that  cannot  fade  utterly  away.  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
pass  unfearing  the  cold  waves  of  Jordan,  with  smiles  on  my 
lips  and  glory  in  my  soul." 

She  lifted  her  blue  eyes  toward  heaven  with  a  celestial  ex 
pression,  and  Nora  felt  as  if  her  words  were  true,  that  she  was 
not  destined  to  remain  long  on  earth. 

"  Do  not  talk  so,"  she  exclaimed,  putting  her  arms  caress 
ingly  round  her;  "you  will  break  my  heart;  I  could  not  live 
without  you.  And  don't  you  see,  I  am  growing  better  every 
day  by  being  with  you?  I  am  getting  so  tame,  that  I  am 
actually  insipid;  and  Robert,  you  have  come  to  him  like  the 
arctic  dove,  and  he  is  putting  out  his  hand  to  draw  you  into 
the  ark.  There,  you  good,  precious  little  soul,  keep  the  shawl 
close  round  your  throat,  and  lay  your  head  on  my  warm  heart. 
The  rain  nor  cold  cannot  reach  you  here." 

But  in  spite  of  Nora's  affectionate  cares,  Julia  did  take  cold, 


A    .SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  81 

and  suffered  from  its  consequences  for  many  days  afterward. 
She  reclined  most  of  the  time  on  the  sofa,  and  every  evening 
the  alabaster  whiteness  of  her  cheeks  was  tinged  with  the 
brightest  and  most  beautiful  rose-tint,  warming  her  delicacy 
and  pallor  into  angelic  beauty.  Nora  always  arranged  her 
crimson  shawl  round  her  in  a  graceful  drapery,  so  as  to  make 
a  picture  of  her,  as  she  said,  and  Julia  smilingly  and  passively 
submitted  herself  to  her  hands.  Nora  would  take  the  comb 
from  her  hair,  suffering  all  its  golden  affluence  to  flow  at  its 
own  sweet  will,  or  restraining  it  by  some  wildwood  garland 
she  had  wreathed  for  the  occasion.  She  did  not  seem  con 
scious  how  graceful  she  looked,  herself  kneeling  on  a  low  stool 
by  the  couch,  exhibiting  at  the  same  time  the  exuberance  of 
her  fancy  and  the  lavishness  of  her  affections. 

The  journey  was  deferred  till  the  following  week,  in  conse 
quence  of  Julia's  indisposition.  The  weather,  which  had  been 
cold  and  rainy,  softened  and  cleared,  and  a  young  moon  shining 
on  the  gloomy  verge  of  the  western  horizon,  showed  how  long 
the  travellers  had  lingered  at  Pine  Grove. 

One  evening  Henry  induced  Nora  to  ramble  abroad  with 
him.  He  knew  what  a  sacrifice  it  was  for  her  to  confine  her 
self  within  doors  as  she  had  done  with  Julia,  and  perhaps  he 
thought  of  his  own  gratification.  Nora  looked  back  with  a 
smile  as  she  closed  the  door;  but  Robert  was  seated  by  Julia, 
and  they  neither  seemed  aware  of  their  departure,  till  the 
tapping  of  Nora's  fingers  on  the  outside  of  the  window  and  the 
ringing  of  her  merry  laughter  made  them  conscious  of  the 
fact. 

Julia,  on  finding  herself  thus  unexpectedly  left  alone  with 
Robert,  raised  herself  from  her  reclining  attitude,  and  gather 
ing  her  wreath-twined  locks  in  her  hand,  looked  round  for  the 
comb  which  Nora  had  stolen,  but  she  looked  in  vain. 

"  Nora  is  so  affectionate  and  so  wild,"  said  she,  quite  vexed 
at  having  allowed  herself  to  be  made  such  a  plaything,  such  a 
fantastic  picture,  "  I  know  not  how  to  resist  her.  She  makes 


82  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

me  look  very  foolish,  but  I  do  not  mind  it  when  she  is  by, 
since  it  pleases  and  amuses  her." 

"And  why  should  you  mind  it  now,  even  admitting  the 
fact,  which  I  do  not?"  said  Kobert,  taking  the  hand  which 
held  her  gathered  tresses,  and  thus  forcing  her  with  exceeding 
gentleness  to  liberate  them.  "I  insist  upon  your  reclining 
exactly  as  you  did  before,  making  no  more  exertion  and  feel 
ing  as  little  restraint  as  if  Nora  were  sitting  by  you  instead 
of  myself;  and  if  you  are  willing  to  look  foolish,  that  is,  just 
as  you  now  do,  because  it  pleases  her,  I  assure  you  it  pleases 
me  a  great  deal  more,  though  I  may  not  have  the  grace  to 
manifest  it." 

Smiling  with  pleasure  at  the  first  personal  compliment 
Robert  had  ever  paid  her,  and  yielding,  as  if  under  the  influ 
ence  of  magnetism,  she  reclined  her  head  once  more  on  the 
arm  of  the  sofa,  while  Robert  still  retained  the  hand  he  had 
taken, — that  frail,  delicate,  fairy  hand,  which  Nora  said  was 
only  fit  to  gather  rose-petals  and  to  feed  humming-birds.  But 
Robert  thought,  while  he  almost  unconsciously  held  it  in  his, 
that,  fair  and  fragile  as  it  was,  it  was  formed  to  clothe  the 
naked,  feed  the  hungry,  and  wipe  the  dew  of  agony  from  the 
brow  of  the  dying.  It  was  the  hand  of  an  angel,  and  fashioned 
for  an  angel's  office. 

"  Julia,"  said  he,  "  we  were  brought  very  near  each  other, 
when  kneeling  side  by  side  at  that  rustic  altar.  Life  seldom 
furnishes  moments  so  dear  and  precious  as  those.  I  cannot 
describe  the  joy,  the  ecstasy,  with  which  I  beheld  you  bowing 
in  meekness  and  humility  before  the  Saviour,  whose  claims  upon 
your  love  I  had  endeavoured,  however  faintly,  to  set  forth.  I 
felt  that  there  was  henceforth  a  bond  between  us,  which  time 
would  only  strengthen,  a  bond  holy  as  heaven,  and  lasting  as 
eternity.  Do  you  acknowledge  this,  Julia,  or  have  I  mistaken 
pure,  but  transient  emotion,  for  the  consecration  of  your  heart 
and  soul  to  the  service  of  the  God  who  made,  the  Saviour  who 
redeemed  you  ?" 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  83 

"I  meant  every  thing/'  said  Julia,  awed  and  melted  by  the 
tender  solemnity  of  his  manner  j  "but,  alas !  I  fear  I  can  accom 
plish  nothing.  I  am  weak  and  wayward,  but  I  have  a  stead 
fast  purpose.  Your  words  have  kindled  in  my  soul  a  holy 
fiame,  which,  though  it  may  be  at  times  dim  and  wavering, 
will  burn,  I  trust,  as  long  as  my  frail  being  lasts.  But  I  need 
your  strengthening  influence,  your  guiding  hand.  If  I  be  not 
too  exacting,  I  would  ask  you  still  to  give  me  your  counsels 
and  your  prayers." 

She  looked  up  to  him  with  such  humility,  reverence,  and 
trust,  that  Robert  felt  guilty  of  deception  in  inspiring  such 
unqualified  confidence,  such  simple,  undoubting  faith,  in  his 
goodness  and  piety.  Would  she  thus  confide  in  and  regard 
him  if  she  knew  the  history  of  the  past  ?  In  spite  of  the  in- 
communicativeness,  the  reticence  of  his  nature,  he  felt  a 
yearning  to  pour  out  his  whole  soul  into  her  confidence,  to  tell 
her  all  that  he  had  been,  that  she  might  not  too  highly  appre 
ciate  what  he  was;  to  talk  to  her  of  Linda,  to  purchase,  thougb 
it  might  be  by  humiliating  confessions,  her  sympathy  for  him 
as  a  man,  and  thus  diminish  her  too-exalted  homage  for  him 
as  a  Christian.  He  knew  that  she  had  never  loved ;  her  rare 
simplicity  and  childish  artlessness  of  manner  were  incompati 
ble  with  an  experience  which  casts  the  shade  of  consciousness 
over  the  most  transparent  character.  Would  she  prize  his 
friendship  so  highly,  if  she  knew  it  was  born  of  the  ruins  of 
rejected  love,  risen  from  the  ashes  of  a  life-consuming  passion  ? 
No  I  unworthy  as  he  was  to  be  an  idol  for  purity  to  worship,  he 
would  voluntarily  descend  from  the  pedestal,  though  he  crushed 
by  the  act  the  garlands  which  entwined  it. 

So  he  told  her  the  history  of  his  youth,  of  his  wild  passion 
its  fearful  consequences,  his  repentance,  despair,  and  reforma 
tion.  He  laid  bare  his  whole  heart  before  her  as  he  had  never 
done  to  a  human  being ;  he  unrolled  the  dark  scroll  of  memory, 
expecting  to  see  her  recoil  from  the  exhibition ;  but.  like  the 
recording  angel,  she  wept,  and  would  fain  blot  out  the  charac 


84  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

ters  forever.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Robert  remained 
calmly  seated  during  this  exciting  narrative,  or  that  Julia  re 
clined  passively  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  a  motionless  listener. 
Sometimes  he  walked  the  room,  with  his  former  rapid  and  re 
sounding  tread ;  sometimes  he  paused,  and  leaned  against  the 
mantelpiece,  while  the  lamps  burning  above  bronzed  with 
their  golden  rays  the  black  waves  of  his  hair;  then  again  he 
would  cast  himself  on  the  low  seat  that  Nora  had  vacated,  and 
bending  his  head  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  express,  by  the  low 
liness  of  his  attitude,  the  deep  humiliation  of  his  spirit. 

He  was  sincere  in  his  desire  to  lower  himself  in  Julia's  es 
timation,  to  reduce  the  brilliant  tints  in  which  her  imagination 
clothed  him ;  but  the  more  he  humbled  himself,  the  more  she 
exalted  him.  He  was  far  more  interesting,  thus  involved  in 
the  alternate  sunbeams  and  shadows  of  sensibility,  than  when, 
in  serene  and  holy  majesty,  he  had  seemed  lifted  above  all  hu 
man  passion.  She  felt  the  exquisite  delight  of  sympathy,  the 
charm  of  an  equal  communion. 

She  would  have  given  worlds  to  be  able  to  express  all  which 
she  felt,  but  she  was  voiceless  from  the  intensity  of  her  emo 
tions.  Deeply  as  she  was  moved  by  this  unlooked-for  mark 
of  confidence  on  his  part,  every  feeling  of  delicacy  and  candour 
prompted  her  to  tell  him  of  her  previous  knowledge  of  his  his 
tory.  She  would  have  arrested  him  at  the  commencement, 
but  his  words  flowed  with  such  impassioned  eloquence,  she  had 
no  power  to  stay  their  fervid  tide.  Now  he  sat  silent,  his  lofty 
head  bowed  down,  and  she  gathered  courage  to  make  the  con 
fession. 

"I  thank  you  for  the  confidence  you  have  reposed  in  me," 
she  said ;  "  I  appreciate  its  value,  but  I  ought  to  have  told  you 
that  I  knew  before  all  you  have  now  revealed.  No,  not  all ; 
facts  have  been  related  by  others,  but  you  alone  could  make 
the  revelation  to  which  I  have  listened  with  a  sympathy  too 
deep  for  words.  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  checked  you,  but 
then  you  might  have  thought  I  did  not  care  to  hear  you.  Have 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA. 


85 


I  been  wrong?"  she  asked,  with  the  soft,  appealing  look  of  one 
"begging  for  forgiveness. 

<<And  have  you  known  all  this,  Julia  ?"  said  he,  fixing  on 
her  eyes  from  whose  dark  depths  the  shadows  of  memory  were 
slowly  retreating,  "and  yet  deem  me  worthy  to  be  your  coun 
sellor  on  earth,  your  guide  to  heaven?  I  thought  your  esteem 
was  based  on  ignorance  of  the  past,  and  it  humbled  me  in  my 
own  eyes.  I  did  not  know  my  life  belonged  to  history.  Yet 
I  cannot  wonder  such  deeds  of  passion  should  be  recorded,  and 
blazoned  too." 

"  I  endeavoured  to  check  the  tongue  of  the  narrator/'  replied 
Julia,  blushing  at  the  thought  that  he  should  deem  her  mean 
enough  to  take  advantage  of  a  servant's  garrulity,  or  of  a 
friend's  communicativeness,  "but  it  was  in  vain.  I  always 
considered  family  histories  as  too  sacred  for  a  stranger's 

ear." 

"  Do  not  misunderstand  me,"  cried  he.  "  I  know  how  intru 
sive  this  gossip  must  have  seemed,  and  I  regret  that  it  should 
have  been  forced  upon  you.  But  though  you  have  been  doomed 
to  the  misery  of  listening  to  a  twice-told  tale,  I  cannot  but  re 
joice  in  the  privilege  you  have  given  me,  since  the  springs  and 
motives  of  action  must  be  best  known  to  the  actor.  I  did  not 
want  you  to  think  better  of  me  than  I  deserve,  but  I  do  not 
wish  you  to  believe  me  worse  than  I  really  am." 

"I  think  I  am  disposed  to  do  you  justice,"  she  said,  with  an 
ingenuous  smile.  "I  will  try,  however,  to  gratify  you,  by 
thinking  very  ill  of  you — if  I  can." 

Robert  must  have  been  very  cold  and  deadened  in  heart,  not 
to  be  charmed  by  this  bewitching  artlessncss.  His  counte 
nance  lighted  up,  like  a  cloud,  when  the  sun  suddenly  breaks 
forth. 

"Will  you,  then,"  said  he,  extending  his  hand,  "receive 
one  so  erring,  yet  so  sincere,  as  your  true  friend,— as  the 
adopted  brother  of  your  heart  and  soul?" 

Julia,  who  had  hung  with  trembling  embarrassment  on  ins 


80  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

closing  words,  held  out  her  hand,  with  a  quick-drawn  breath; 
and  Robert  received  it  as  the  seal  of  a  pure  and  lasting  com 
pact.  Did  not  the  rapid  pulsations  of  that  hand,  as  he  clasped 
it, — spotless,  fragile,  and  yielding  as  infancy's,  in  his  own, — 
warn  him  that  it  was  more  than  the  seal  of  friendship,  more 
than  the  pledge  of  sisterly  regard?  "Whether  the  warning 
was  understood  and  heeded,  or  not,  the  moment  of  unreserved 
communion  was  over.  A  light  tap  at  the  window  announced 
the  return  of  the  ramblers,  and  Nora  bounded  into  the  room, 
sparkling  as  the  stars,  blooming  as  roses,  her  spirits  pitched 
to  the  highest  key.  She  came  like  the  cold,  exhilarating  air 
of  the  polar  regions,  flowing  in  under  the  soft  balminess  of  a 
tropical  atmosphere.  She  came,  like  the  bright,  clear,  starry 
out-door  world  into  the  moonlight  stillness  of  a  sequestered 
bower.  What  a  change  the  sudden  entrance  of  this  gay, 
brisk,  exuberant  being  caused !  Julia  started,  as  if  awakened 
from  a  delicious  dream.  Robert  rose,  and  walking  to  the  win 
dow,  looked  out  into  the  clear,  blue  night. 

Henry,  who  seemed  as  animated  as  Nora,  though  less  de 
monstrative,  went  up  to  Julia,  and,  passing  his  cool  hands 
over  her  warm  cheeks,  declared  that  Robert  must  be  a  good 
physician,  for  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  well. 

"  Have  you  enjoyed  your  walk  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes/'  he  answered,  "  it  was  charming.  Nora  dis 
covered  a  path  in  the  woods;  so  devious  and  romantic,  it  was 
a  perfect  sylvan  labyrinth.  We  became  such  enchanting  com 
pany  to  each  other  that  we  actually  lost  ourselves,  and  expected 
to  ramble  away  our  lives,  and  perish  like  the  '  Babes  in  the 
Woods,'  for  my  AriaHne  had  no  silken  clue,  to  guide  her  wan 
dering  Theseus  through  the  maze." 

"  Do  not  believe  him,"  cried  Nora;  "  it  is  all  a  fabrication 
of  his  own.  We  have  not  been  lost.  He  declared  he  would 
follow  me  to  the  end  of  the  world,  and  I  made  a  zigzag  path 
round  tbe  trees,  whicn  I  defied  him  to  trace.  I  would  have 
kept  him  wandering  after  me  yet,  bound  by  his  oath,  had  I 


A    SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  87 

not  been  afraid  that  you  would  be  frightened,  Julia,  at  our 
long  absence." 

"  Oh,  no/'  answered  Julia;  "  I  was  not  in  the  least  fright 
ened.  I  did  not  think  of  your  returning  in  so  short  a  time." 

Even  Henry  could  not  help  laughing  at  Julia's  artless 
remark. 

"  That  is  the  way,"  he  said,  "  with  us  vain  people.  We 
imagine  ourselves  of  so  much  consequence  to  others,  that  our 
prolonged  absence  will  throw  them  into  paroxysms  of  agony, 
and  we  find  them  as  calm  and  unruffled  as  the  Pacific  Ocean. 
I  shall  not  hurry  you  home  again,  Nora,  with  such  ungallant 
speed." 

"  Hurry  me!"  exclaimed  Nora;  "you  might  as  well  try  to 
hurry  the  hurricane !" 

But  we  will  not  attempt  to  repeat  all  the  airy  nothings — 
the  bubbles  of  nonsense — that  issued,  sparkling  and  evapo 
rating,  from  her  tongue.  Her  gayety  was  contagious.  Ro 
bert's  unburdened  heart  caught  the  reflection  of  Henry's 
sunny  spirit,  and  the  latter  recognised  the  brilliant  genius 
that  presided  over  their  convivial  festivals  of  college  days. 
Nothing  made  Henry  so  happy  as  this.  He  admired  and  re 
vered  Robert  in  his  present  character;  but  he  loved  to  see 
him  abandon  himself  to  the  memories  of  those  hours  of  reck 
less  joy  and  classic  brightness, — those  hours  so  dear  to  his  own 
remembrance.  He  forgot  to  warn  Julia  that  it  was  time  to 
retire;  he  forgot  that  time  had  wings. 

It  was  one  of  the  last  evenings  they  expected  to  pass  at 
Pine  Grove,  and  they  all  lingered  round  the  hearth-stone,  as 
if  unwilling  to  separate.  Though  the  late  autumnal  days  of  a 
Southern  clime  are  of  Grecian  softness,  the  fire  of  the  domes 
tic  altar  is  always  kindled  at  night,  warming  the  heart  by  its 
ruddy  glow. 

When  Julia  laid  her  cheek  upon  her  pillow,  her  last 
thoughts  were  not  of  the  home  she  had  icft  behind — not  of 
the  gentle  mother, — the  indulgent  father, — the  sweet,  loving 


ROBERT    GRAHAM  ! 

sinter,  whose  daily  solicitude  and  nightly  prayers  followed  the 
wanderer's  path.  She  tried  to  bring  before  her  mind  the 
withered  trees  and  faded  fields  of  the  North,  now  baring 
themselves  for  their  wintry  drapery  of  snow;  her  fancy  would 
dwell  in  forests  of  evergreen  and  bowers  of  jessamine,  and  a 
voice,  even  sweeter  than  a  mother's  tongue,  seemed  wooing 
her  to  tarry  in  them  forever. 

Ah,  Julia !  She  was  going  beyond  the  compact.  Friend 
ship — brotherly  and  sisterly  regard  ! — nothing  more  was  asked 
or  promised,  yet,  without  meaning  to  encroach,  she  was  dream 
ing  of  a  great  deal  more. 

Nora  had  her  dreams,  too;  but  she  did  not  tell  what  they 
were.  Who  knows,  but,  borne  on  the  peaceful  waves  of  slum 
ber,  she  was  winging  her  way  to  New  England's  granite  shore, 
building  a  heart-nest  on  some  of  its  rugged  rocks  and  branch 
ing  elms,  or  constructing  a  love-palace  from  its  wintry  ice? 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  scene  is  changed  to  the  home  of  Linda,  in  Louisiana's 
sunny  clime. 

When,  three  years  ago,  the  writer  and  the  reader  bade  adieu 
to  that  home,  it  was  said  that  "  Linda  was  happy."  Happi 
ness  is  the  peculiar  privilege  of  young  and  beautiful  brides. 
It  is  not  strange  that  it  was  hers.  It  is,  perhaps,  more 
strange, — since  the  vicissitudes  of  the  day  and  night  of  human 
life  are  almost  as  constant  as  the  succession  of  the  morning  sun 
beams  and  evening  shadows, — that,  during  those  three  passing 
years,  she  has  been  growing  happier  and  lovelier.  Nothing 
has  occurred  to  mar  the  perfection  of  her  felicity.  The  fickle 
waves  have  proved  constant  to  Roland,  and  borne  him  in 
safety  over  their  heaving  bosom.  While  others  have  sighed 


A    SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  89 

over  the  burning  boat  and  the  wrecking  bark,  he  has  gone  on 
his  watery  way  safe  and  triumphant,  loving  more  and  more 
the  element  to  which  he  had  consecrated  his  early  vows  and 
his  later  energies.  A  beautiful  child — that  connecting  link 
between  earth  and  heaven — has  crowned  their  union  with 
Nature's  holiest  blessing.  Surely  nothing  is  wanting  to  com 
plete  this  picture  of  wedded  and  parental  joy,  of  domestic 
harmony  and  smiling  fortune  !  The  clouds  of  the  past  only 
serve  to  bring  out,  in  brighter,  stronger  relief,  the  images  of 
present  felicity. 

Linda's  grateful  heart  is  conscious  of  but  one  want — the 
presence  of  Robert ;  of  Robert,  so  dreaded  as  the  lover,  so 
beloved  as  the  brother  and  the  friend.  Her  prayers  have  fol 
lowed  him  on  his  heavenly  mission;  her  thanksgivings  as 
cended  for  his  safe  return. 

She  was  charmed  at  the  prospect  of  his  coming,  accompanied 
by  his  Northern  friends;  and,  with  the  prescience  of  a  wo 
man's  heart,  she  began  to  weave  a  romance  of  the  few  threads 
of  fact  contained  in  the  letter  which  announced  their  contem 
plated  visit.  It  is  astonishing  what  a  beautiful  web  she  fabri 
cated  of  material  so  slender,  and  how  brightly  she  coloured  it 
with  the  charming  tints  of  her  own  imagination. 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  she  said,  perusing  the  letter  a  second  time,  and 
musing  on  its  contents;  " Heaven  has  placed  this  sweet 
Northern  traveller  right  in  his  path,  that  the  flowers  of  love 
may  blossom  in  it  anew,  and  the  closed  portals  of  his  heart 
open  to  admit  their  fragrance.  l  A  young,  fair,  and  delicate 
girl,' "  continued  she,  reading  from  the  letter — '  the  sister  of 
my  college  friend.'  'He  has  brought  her  from  the  chill 
regions  of  the  North  to  our  beautiful  Southern  clime,  fearing 
for  her  the  premature  doom  that  has  fallen  on  his  own  young 
wife/  <  I  have  promised  her  that  she  shall  find  a  friend  and 
sister  in  Linda/  Yes,  Robert,  your  promise  shall  be  redeemed. 
For  your  sake,  I  will  welcome  this  sweet,  drooping,  Northern 
flower,  and  she  shall  bloom  beautifully  in  the  garden  of  my 


90  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

heart.  She  is  frail  and  delicate,  and  needs  protection  and 
support, — and  who  so  fitted  to  bestow  them  as  thou,  Robert, 
in  thy  manly  dignity  and  soul-sustaining  principles?  She 
flees  from  the  cold  blasts  that  bring  the  snow-flakes  and  sleet 
upon  their  wintry  wings.  Thy  home,  Robert,  is  sunned  by 
Imost  perennial  summer;  and  thou  canst  make  a  downy  nest 
for  her  in  thine  own  loving  bosom.  The  sister  of  thy  college 
friend — how  strong  the  fascination  of  such  a  tie  !  That  alone 
is  irresistible.  And  I,  who  never  had  a  sister — how  I  shall 
love,  for  my  own  sake,  this  dear  young  invalid,  so  far  from 
her  home  and  friends  !  I  will  surround  her  with  the  tenderest 
cares,  the  fondest  attentions, — cheating  her  into  the  belief 
that  she  is  my  own  twin-born  soul." 

Who  does  not  recognise  the  sweet  castle-builder,  who,  when 
a  little  child,  while  awaiting  the  approach  of  the  step-mother 
whom  she  had  never  yet  seen,  erected  an  aerial  palace  of  love, 
which  fell  before  the  first  cold  breath  of  reality ! 

There  was  another  clause  in  the  letter  which  pleased,  with 
out  exciting  her.  Robert,  anticipating  the  wishes  of  Julia, 
had  suggested  the  probability  of  Nora  Marshall  being  her 
companion  in  the  journey,  as  she  was  now  under  his  roof. 
"  You  remember  her,"  said  the  letter,  "as  the  wild  little  hoy 
den  with  whom  I  waged  perpetual  warfare, — myself  a  rude, 
ungovernable  boy.  She  is  very  wild  still ;  but  we  have  buried 
the  tomahawk  of  animosity, — and,  though  the  elements  of  our 
characters  are  as  incapable  of  blending  as  water  and  oil,  our 
meeting  is  now  as  peaceful  and  harmless.  That  she  has 
genuine  tenderness  of  heart,  her  spontaneous  affection  for  the 
fragile  Julia  shows." 

"  Ah  !  how  fair,  how  interesting  this  fragile  Julia  must  be, 
since  even  the  wild  Nora  acknowledged  so  speedily  her  gentle 
influence !" 

Roland  smiled  in  his  own  peculiar,  not  quite  believing  way, 
at  Linda's  ardent  expressions.  He  sometimes  indulged  the 
natural  sportiveness  of  his  disposition,  by  affecting  an  mere- 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  91 

civility  he  did  not  feel,  so  as  to  call  forth  a  more  vivid  delinea 
tion  of  her  fancy  sketches. 

"  Very  likely  this  fair  young  invalid  may  prove  a  rustic 
Yankee  lass,  whom  Robert  calls  fair  and  delicate,  out  of  cour 
tesy  to  her  sex." 

"  Some  of  the  most  beautiful  and  charming  women  I  have 
ever  seen  are  Yankees,  as  you  call  them,"  replied  Linda, 
warmly ;  "  and  her  brother  would  not  have  been  educated  at  a 
Southern  college  were  he  not  of  polished  birth/' 

"  And  why,  my  fair  logician  ?" 

"  Because  the  yeomanry  of  the  North,  the  labourers  and 
tillers  of  the  earth,  are  prejudiced  against  the  South,  whose 
sons  of  toil  are  of  a  darker,  lowlier  race.  The  mere  circum 
stance  of  young  Bellenden  being  a  graduate  of  Charlottesville 
shows  his  family  are  exempt  from  such  prejudice,  and  there 
fore  of  a  higher  caste." 

"  Admirable  syllogism  !  but  surely  you  do  not,  would  not 
depreciate  the  dignity  of  labour,  the  right  divine  of  industry, 
— a  right  exercised  at  first  in  the  garden  of  Eden,  and  which 
man  should  claim  as  his  noblest  heritage  !" 

"  You  know  I  would  not,  Roland.  That  mocking  smile 
shows  you  know  exactly  what  I  do  mean,  and  that  you  believe 
with  me  that  the  gentle  Julia  may  be  all  that  my  imagination 
has  painted  her  and  my  heart  prophesies." 

"I  do,  indeed,  rejoice  in  the  thought  of  your  having  so 
charming  a  companion,  to  fill  the  void  my  absence  will 
create,"  said  Roland,  his  sportive  accents  changing  to  tones  of 
seriousness.  "  As  I  am  bound  for  foreign  lands,  and  my  stay 
may  be  somewhat  protracted,  I  feel  unusual  anxiety  on  your 
account." 

"  Had  it  not  been  for  the  coming  of  these  friends,  Roland, 
I  would  have  pleaded  so  earnestly  as  to  overcome  all  your 
powers  of  resistance.  I  would  have  been  your  companion; 
and,  of  course,  our  darling  Walton." 

"  Were  1  not  bound  on  a  voyage  of  business,  'mperativo 


92  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

business,  which  involves  a  devious  course  and  complicated 
cares,  I  would  indeed  take  my  wife  and  child  in  my  arms,  and, 
happy  in  my  floating  home,  care  not  how  long  I  lingered. 
But  as  it  is,  I  must  not  divide  my  thoughts  even  with  the  ho 
liest  of  all  earthly  duties.  When  I  think  of  the  commanding 
claims  Mr.  Hunly  has  on  my  gratitude  and  respect,  I  blush 
that  I  should  deem  any  thing  a  sacrifice  which  will  prove  my 
devotion  to  his  interests.  He  has  been  so  largely  engaged  in 
commerce,  that  the  difficulties  in  which  he  is  plunged  present 
a  tangled  web  few  would  have  the  boldness  to  attempt  to  un 
ravel.  I  have  the  boldness  to  attempt,  I  trust  I  shall  have  the 
ability  to  execute." 

Mr.  Hunly,  it  will  be  recollected,  was  the  gentleman  whom 
Roland  Lee  rescued  from  the  wreck  of  the  Belle  Creole,  and 
who  testified  his  gratitude  in  so  signal  a  manner.  His  health 
had  never  recovered  from  the  shock  it  had  received,  so  that 
the  cares  and  responsibilities  born  of  his  large  possessions 
weighed  heavily  upon  him.  He  always  called  Roland  his  son, 
and  Roland  felt  that  every  duty  belonging  to  affiliation  rested 
as  naturally  on  him  as  if  he  owned  that  sacred  name. 

Mr.  Hunly,  as  Roland  said,  was  extensively  engaged  in  com 
merce.  His  ships  bore  the  snowy  wealth  of  his  plantations 
to  other  lands,  and  connected  him  with  some  of  the  largest 
commercial  houses  of  Liverpool  and  Havre.  The  failure  of 
one  of  those  large  houses,  like  the  falling  of  one  massive  pillar 
of  the  many  that  support  a  great  temple,  caused  every  associated 
interest  to  tremble  and  shake  with  insecurity.  All  the  accu 
mulated  wealth  which  for  many  years  had  been  flowing  into 
Mr.  Hunly's  coffers,  and  which  he  had  been  sending  in  streams 
of  munificence  and  charity  over  the  land,  was  endangered  by 
the  concussion.  To  save  it,  if  possible,  from  the  general  ruin, 
was  the  object  of  the  mission  which  was  about  to  bear  Roland 
Lee  to  a  foreign  country.  Linda  was  too  self-sacrificing  not  to 
yield  an  unmurmuring  assent  to  Roland's  proposition;  but  the 
heart  of  the  wife  was  made  doubly  tender  by  the  affections  of 


A   SEQUEL  TO   LINDA.  93 

the  mother,  and  she  looked  forward  to  his  departure  with  feel 
ings  she  had  never  experienced  before.  But  the  wife  of  him 
whose  profession  bears  him  to  the  battle-field,  or  over  the  roll 
ing  wave,  must  be  brave  and  heroic ;  and  Linda  often  smiled, 
while  the  tear  of  anxiety  trembled  in  her  eye. 

It  was  under  such  circumstances  that  she  welcomed  Robert, 
his  Northern  friends,  and  her  early  schoolmate  to  Rosavilla, 
the  name  of  her  Louisiania  home.  The  first  day,  on  which 
they  could  reasonably  be  expected,  Roland  had  sent  a  carriage 
to  the  landing-place,  near  as  it  was,  on  account  of  Julia's  deli 
cate  health,  where  it  waited  hour  after  hour  for  their  arrival; 
and  so  it  was  day  after  day,  and  still  they  came  not.  Some 
accident  must  have  occurred;  but  just  as  this  conviction  was 
admitted  by  all  as  the  cause  of  their  delay,  they  came,  and 
Robert  and  Linda  met,  after  a  separation  of  three  years.  It 
was  late ;  the  hour  of  expectation  had  passed  by,  and  Linda 
called  in  her  wandering  thoughts  to  her  own  household  treasures. 

Though  the  season  was  so  far  advanced,  the  tropic  warmth 
of  the  climate  suffered  the  night  air  to  enter  through  the  open 
windows,  shaded  even  now  with  blossoming  vines  and  perennial 
roses.  A  gentle  flame  illumined  the  hearth,  but  it  seemed 
more  for  irradiation  than  warmth,  and  harmonized  with  the  soft 
lustre  of  the  moonlight  lamps  on  the  mantelpiece  and  table. 
A  pure,  youthful,  yet  highly  cultivated  taste,  hovered  with 
airy  grace  over  the  furniture  and  decorations  of  this  apartment. 
Even  in  the  dreary  home  of  her  stepmother,  dreary  from  asso 
ciation  rather  than  its  actual  aspect,  Linda  had  left  traces  of 
her  girlish  love  of  the  beautiful  and  appropriate.  In  her  own, 
where  she  reigned  with  unconscious  regality, — for  her  wishes 
were  laws,  obeyed  as  soon  as  known,  because  made  known  with 
so  much  gentleness,  and  such  a  willingness  to  yield, — in  her 
own  home,  with  abundant  materials  to  work  out  her  bright  fan 
cies  and  graceful  tastes,  she  had  displayed  the  exquisiteness  of 
the  first,  and  the  luxuriance  of  the  last.  The  drapery  which 
shaded  the  windows  was  almost  as  transparent  and  light  as  the 
24 


91  ROBERT   GRAHAM: 

web  of  the  gossamer,  and  through  these  gauzy  folds,  gathered 
back  into  the  clasp  of  a  hand  glittering  with  a  golden  sem 
blance,  the  roses  breathed  clouds  of  fragrance,  and  their  blos 
soms  glowed  with  softened  beauty. 

This  apartment  communicated  with  another  by  folding  doors, 
now  open,  furnished  in  a  similar  manner,  only  the  light  dra 
pery  of  the  curtains  was  lined  with  rose-coloured  silk,  Linda's 
favourite  colour,  and  a  bed  covered  with  sweeping  folds  of  white 
lace,  falling  below  a  rose-coloured  canopy,  showed  it  was  that 
penetralia  of  the  household  sacred  from  the  stranger's  foot.  A 
crib,  made  of  the  light  bamboo,  and  covered  with  the  same 
white  lace  drapery,  as  a  protection  against  mosquitoes,  the  worse 
than  Egyptian  plague  of  the  far  South,  showed  also  that  this 
chamber  was  the  resting-place  of  infant  innocence.  Paintings, 
over  whose  rich,  glittering  frames  a  white  cloud  of  gauze  wag 
floating,  relieved  the  cool  whiteness  of  the  walls,  and  marble 
statuettes  stood  on  fluted,  ingrained  pedestals  in  the  corners  of 
the  room.  One  of  these  represented  a  young  flower-girl,  from 
whose  marble  basket  sweet  flowers  were  dripping,  diffusing  the 
hues  and  fragrance  of  life  over  her  cold,  white  lineaments. 

Linda  sat  at  a  table  near  one  of  the  open  windows,  by  the 
side  of  Roland,  who  held  a  book  in  his  hand,  but  at  this  mo 
ment  he  seemed  to  be  perusing  a  fairer  page  in  the  face  of 
Linda.  What  lighted  up  the  radiant  smile  that  now  illumined 
her  whole  countenance?  Why  did  she  stretch  out  her  beau 
tiful  arms  so  eagerly  toward  the  half-open  door,  and  then  partly 
turn  toward  Roland,  with  such  a  world  of  meaning  in  her 
smiling  glance,  as  if  directing  his  attention  to  the  same  object? 
A  sound  sweet  as  those  "airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's 
names/  musical  and  indistinct  as  the  murmur  of  the  silver 
cascade,  greeted  her  ear.  It  was  the  cherub  voice  of  infancy, 
it  was  her  own  darling  Walton,  who  now  sprang  from  the  arms 
of  his  African  nurse  to  the  embrace  of  his  beautiful  yoang 
mother.  The  child  was  in  his  loose  night-dress,  fresh  from  his 
evening  ablution,  with  the  pure  rose-tint  cold  water  always 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  95 

gives  to  the  lilies  of  infancy  visible  not  only  on  his  soft,  round 
cheeks,  but  his  little,  fat,  dimpled  fingers,  and  waxen  feet; 
Linda  caught  him  in  her  arms,  pressed  him  rapturously  to  her 
bosom,  and  pushing  back  the  soft,  short,  silken  curls  from  his 
baby  brow,  kissed  it  again  and  again.  She  kissed  its  cheeks, 
lips,  and  neck,  while  rills  of  laughter  bubbled  from  its  rosy  lips; 
then  holding  him  from  her  as  far  as  possible,  she  called  upon 
Roland  to  admire  its  infantine  loveliness  and  grace.  He  did 
admire  it,  even  so  as  to  satisfy  her  fond,  exacting,  maternal 
pride,  but  he  admired  the  lovely,  graceful  mother  more,  and 
folding  his  arms  around  them  both,  his  heart  swelled  with  love 
and  gratitude  too  deep  for  utterance. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Robert,  who,  at  their  own  re 
quest,  had  left  his  friends  in  the  carriage  at  the  gate,  while  he 
went  forward  to  announce  them,  approached  the  door,  and 
through  the  open  windows,  so  transparently  curtained,  he  be 
held  this  charming  family  group.  He  could  not  help  pausing 
to  gaze  upon  it,  had  death  been  the  penalty  of  the  act.  He 
stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  rose-trees,  and  the  balmy  atmo 
sphere  floating  round  seemed  the  heart-incense  rising  from  that 
domestic  altar.  For  three  years,  the  image  of  Linda  had 
lingered  in  his  memory,  as  he  had  seen  her  in  bridal  robes, 
her  eyes  suffused  with  parting  tears,  which  veiled  her  maiden 
love  and  happiness.  She  was  changed  only  as  the  stars  change, 
from  lustre  to  lustre.  She  was  changed  only  as  the  flowers 
change,  from  bloom  to  bloom,  with  ever-increasing  beauty. 
Her  girlish  charms  were  now  but  just  developed,  for  Linda 
had  only  reached  her  twentieth  year,  and  was  in  the  morning 
glow  of  womanhood.  Her  dress  of  simple  white  corresponded 
equally  with  the  mildness  of  the  climate  and  the  youthful 
character  of  her  face  and  form.  Her  beautiful  brown  hair 
was  arranged  with  a  kind  of  childish  grace  peculiarly  her  own, 
waving  back  from  her  temples,  falling  again  in  careless  ring 
lets,  and  wreathed  behind  in  braids  that  here  and  there  burst 
out  into  curls,  in  the  unrestrained  wantonness  of  luxuriance. 


96  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

Had  she  studied  for  years  to  find  an  attitude  of  grace  to  please 
the  eye  of  a  fastidious  artist,  she  could  not  have  assumed  one 
more  enchanting  than  the  one  in  which  she  now  rested, — with 
her  arms  slightly  raised,  holding  the  child,  and  her  head  re 
clining  on  her  husband's  shoulder. 

Robert  saw  in  him  only  the  background  of  this  radiant 
picture, — the  framework  of  its  beauty,  and  its  guardian  too. 
For  one  moment  his  heart  throbbed  wildly  with  all  the  fer 
vour  of  its  early  passion ;  he  forgot  the  insurmountable  barrier 
that  separated  them ;  the  marriage  bond,  the  maternal  tie,  the 
thousand  sanctities  of  domestic  life;  he  remembered  her  only 
as  the  being  given  to  his  boyhood  by  a  mother's  regal  will,  the 
first  and  only  beloved  of  his  passionate  youth;  and  he  was 
about  to  rush  forward,  and  rending  her  from  the  arms  which 
already  encircled  her,  claim  her  as  his  own  in  the  sight  of 
God  and  man.  But  the  child,  to  whose  cherub  face  her  own 
was  lifted,  interposed  itself  as  a  heavenly  shield  between  her 
and  his  momentary  madness, — weak  and  helpless  as  it  was,  it 
had  the  strength  of  an  armed  legion  in  its  little  waxen  arm. 
Like  the  delicate  steel  web  that  surrounds  the  flame  of  a  safety- 
lamp,  imprisoning  with  its  slender  fibres  the  fire-sparks  whose 
escape  would  be  death,  the  holy  charm  of  infant  innocency 
wove  a  spell  too  pure,  too  strong  for  one  ray  of  passion  to 
penetrate.  Robert  started,  and  drew  a  relieving  breath.  The 
beloved  of  his  youth  melted  away  into  the  wife  and  mother, 
guarded,  as  with  bars  of  triple  gold,  from  every  thought  incon 
sistent  with  a  brother's  love. 

The  window  opened  to  the  floor.  Lifting  the  drooping 
vine-wreaths,  and  putting  aside  the  soft  cloud  of  lace  through 
which  he  had  been  gazing,  he  stood  in  front  of  the  green  arch 
way,  and  his  tall  figure  intercepted  by  its  darkness  the  star 
light  gleaming  through.  Linda  started  up  with  a  cry  of  joy, 
and  almost  tossing  the  baby  into  its  father's  arms,  threw  her 
own  impulsively,  joyously,  round  Robert's  neck.  She  greeted 
him  as  a  long-absent  brother,  with  the  glad  freedom  of  unre- 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  97 

strained  affection,  chastened  by  the  remembrance  of  their  mu 
tual  sufferings. 

"  Oh !  Robert,  dear  Robert,"  she  cried,  looking  up  in  his 
face  with  glistening  eyes,  "  is  it  indeed  you  ?  and  are  you  come 
at  last  to  be  the  crowning  blessing  of  our  happy  home  ?" 

Robert's  heart  was  too  full  for  words.  He  could  only  clasp 
her  in  silence  to  his  bosom,  while  he  breathed  a  voiceless 
prayer  to  heaven,  that  he  might  indeed  prove  a  blessing,  by 
being  worthy  of  such  confiding  tenderness.  When  Roland 
extended  his  hand  with  brotherly  warmth  and  cordiality,  as 
the  friend  of  all  others  most  gladly  welcomed,  he  could  meet 
the  clear  sunshine  of  his  glance  with  one  as  clear  and  stead 
fast,  and  rejoice  in  the  consciousness  of  recovered  strength. 
Then  Linda,  with  all  a  young  mother's  pride,  put  her  baby  in 
his  arms,  and  made  him  lisp  with  sweet  indistinctness  the 
name  she  had  taught  his  infant  lips  to  utter, — while,  gay,  fear 
less,  and  loving,  it  laid  its  soft  cheek  on  his  bosom,  and  passed 
its  white  chubby  hand  over  his  raven  hair. 

He  looked  at  Linda  when  he  restored  the  baby  to  her  arms, 
and  had  she  read  all  that  glance  expressed,  its  interpretation 
would  have  been  this : — 

"Should  the  time  ever  come,  Linda,  when  thou  and  thy 
child  require  a  guardian  and  protector,  I  will  shield  ye  both, 
if  need  be,  at  the  sacrifice  of  life.  Thou  needest  me  not  in 
the  blaze  of  sunshine  which  now  surrounds  thee;  but  in  the 
night-time  of  sorrow,  the  storm  and  the  tempest,  I  may  yet  bo 
thy  stay  and  support/' 

"But  where  are  your  friends?"  asked  Linda,  as  soon  as  she 
had  time  to  think  of  any  one  but  Robert;  "  why  are  you  alone, 
when  I  have  been  making  room  in  my  heart  for  three  more  ?" 

"  My  friends  wait  in  the  carriage  at  the  gate,"  answered 
Robert,  ashamed  of  his  forgetfulness  of  them  while  lingering 
at  the  window. 

a  Here  is  one  to  answer  for  herself,"  exclaimed  a  gay  voice 
gushing  through  the  roses, — and  Nora,  tossing  the  vine-wreathy 


98  ROBERT   GRAHAM: 

aside  with  sportive  grace,  entered  the  room, — "  Mrs.  Lee,  Mrs. 
Roland  Lee, — no,  no, — Linda,  my  own  Linda  Walton,  don't 
you  remember  your  old  torment,  the  young  scapegoat  of  the 
school,  Nora  Marshall  ?" 

A  cordial,  smiling,  school-girlish  embrace  was  the  answer  to 
this  characteristic  appeal.  She  did  find  it  somewhat  difficult 
to  recognise  "  the  old  torment  and  young  scapegoat"  in  the 
handsome,  spirited  young  girl  before  her.  There  was,  how 
ever,  a  lurking  mischief  in  her  eye  that  reminded  her  of  old 
times. 

"Where  is  Miss  Bellenden?  Where  is  her  brother?" 
again  cried  Linda.  "  Robert,  take  me  to  them  immediately. 
She  will  think  Southern  hospitality  exists  but  in  name.  How 
could  I  forget  her  so  long  ?" 

"  She  is  still  in  the  carriage,"  answered  Nora.  "  I  could 
not  persuade  her  to  do  as  I  did ;  jump  over  ceremony,  and 
introduce  myself.  Her  brother  is  with  her.  Captain  Lee/' 
said  she,  turning  to  Roland,  as  Robert  and  Linda  left  the  room 
together,  "  the  man  lives  not  whom  I  have  been  so  anxious  to 
see  as  yourself." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Roland,  pleased  and  amused  with  the  dash 
ing  frankness  of  her  manner,  "  to  what  source  am  I  indebted 
for  this  flattering  interest  ?" 

"  To  the  romance  existing  in  every  woman's  breast.  I  knew 
you  by  reputation  as  a  hero,  and  as  the  successful  rival  of 
Robert  Graham.  Was  not  that  sufficient  to  excite  my 
curiosity?" 

"  I  regret  that  excited  curiosity  should  find  so  little  to  gratify 
it.  I  am  sure  you  must  think  me  wanting  in  the  usual  cha 
racteristics  of  a  hero." 

"What  are  they?" 

"A  magnificent  figure,  sable  hair,  and  stormy  temperament, 
are  they  not?" 

"  You  describe  Robert  Graham.  But  he  is  a  minister,  and 
tiierofore  cannot  be  a  hero.  What  a  pity  such  brilliant  quali- 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA. 

fications  should  be  so  misapplied!  I  like  your  profession.  I 
love  the  water;  I  think  I  was  born  to  be  a  sailor's  wife.  Do 
you  call  yourself  a  sailor,  Captain  Lee?" 

Nora  rattled  away  as  lightly  as  if  she  had  known  Roland  all 
her  life,  perfectly  at  ease,  as  bright  and  sparkling  as  if  fresh 
from  morning  slumbers,  instead  of  being  wearied  by  a  long 
journey.  She  took  off  her  bonnet,  smoothed  her  rich,  glossy 
hair,  arranged  her  collar,  and  shook  the  wrinkling  folds  of  her 
dress,  talking  and  laughing  the  whole  time;  and  when  Linda 
returned,  ran  to  her  and  told  her  that  she  and  her  husband 
were  already  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 

How  different  from  the  pale,  weary,  and  sensitive  Julia! 
Overcome  by  fatigue,  oppressed  by  strange  and  varying  feelings, 
she  sank  upon  a  seat,  shrouding  her  face  with  her  veil,  as  she 
did  the  night  she  arrived  at  Pine  Grove.  It  was  remarkable, 
considering  Julia's  youth  and  beauty,  that  she  should  shrink 
with  such  morbid  sensibility  from  the  strangers'  gaze.  The 
difference  in  the  character  of  the  two  young  girls  might  be 
read  in  this  simple  trait.  Nora  never  would  wear  a  veil.  She 
despised  them,  and  declared  she  could  not  breathe  freely  with 
one  over  her  face.  Julia,  in  walking,  riding,  in  steamboat  or 
car,  invariably  drew  down  her  veil  on  the  approach  of  a  stran 
ger;  while  Nora  would  turn  on  them  her  keen,  bright  glance, 
resolved  to  see  how  they  looked,  without  thinking  or  caring 
whether  they  looked  at  her  or  not. 

Julia  was  now  in  the  presence  of  that  Linda  of  whom  she 
had  heard  and  thought  and  dreamed  so  much,  and  the  convic 
tion  forced  itself  into  her  mind,  firm  and  cold  as  an  iron  wedge, 
that  he  who  had  loved  her  could  not  transfer  his  affections 
to  another.  All  the  sweet  day-dreams  which  had  been  float 
ing  round  her  during  their  protracted  journey,  wrapping  her 
in  a  delicious  haziness,  making  an  Indian  summer  of  her  heart, 
vanished  in  the  light  of  Linda's  greeting  -smile.  The  soft, 
glad  music  of  her  voice,  coming  to  her  through  the  glimmer 
ing  starlight,  thrilled  her  with  a  sense  of  exquisite  beauty, 


100  ROBERT    GRAHAM  I 

and  now,  when  she  saw  her  hovering  round  her,  lavishing 
upon  her  every  kind  and  soothing  attention,  while  the  mimic 
moonlight  within  fell  resplendently  on  her,  she  felt  herself  a 
dim  shadow,  vanishing  before  her  noonday  brightness. 

Linda,  unconscious  of  what  was  passing  in  Julia's  mind, 
sought  by  every  gentle  and  endearing  care  to  beguile  her 
weariness.  She  sat  down  by  her,  relieved  her,  with  her  own 
hands,  of  her  bonnet,  mantilla,  and  shawl,  and  entreated  her 
to  feel  as  much  at  home  as  if  she  were  seated  at  a  sister's 
side. 

"I  never  had  a  sister,"  said  she,  pressing  Julia's  hand  in 
both  her  own,  "and  ever  since  I  have  heard  of  your  coming,  I 
have  adopted  you  as  one,  and  loved  you  in  anticipation.  Per 
haps  you  think  me  hasty  to  express  what  I  have  not  had  time 
to  feel;  but  you  must  remember  that  I  am  of  Southern  birth, 
and  our  feelings  are  quick  as  the  rays  of  our  warmer  sun,  not 
the  silent  growth  of  years." 

"  I  feel  far  more  than  I  can  express,"  answered  Julia,  blush 
ing  at  the  consciousness  of  how  much  more  she  did  feel  than 
she  was  willing  to  express,  "and  if  I  seem  cold,  impute  it  to  a 
languid  frame,  rather  than  a  frigid  heart." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  are  an  invalid,  but  I  shall  not  suffer  you 
to  remain  one.  Winter  cannot  reach  you  in  our  orange  bowers. 
Look  at  those  roses;  just  such  shall  bloom  upon  your  cheeks 
before  you  leave  us." 

"  Every  thing  seems  like  enchantment,"  said  Julia,  looking 
round  her,  finding  it  impossible  to  realize  that  she  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  a  wintry  season:  "when  I  think  of  our  scent 
less  shrubs  and  withered  gardens,  I  imagine  myself  trans 
ported  to  a  fairer  world." 

Julia,  seated  familiarly  at  Linda's  side,  conversing  with  her 
on  ordinary  topics  as  with  a  common  mortal,  felt  as  if  a  cold, 
bright  frostwork  were  melting  away  in  the  sunshiny  atmo 
sphere  she  diffused  around  her.  The  cold,  dim,  shadowy  con 
sciousness  passed  away,  in  the  soft,  luxurious  air  she  was 


A   SEQUEL   TO 

inhaling;  she  dared  to  raise  her  eyes  and  seek  the  animated 
countenance  of  her  brother,  though  she  knew  Robert  was  by 
him,  and  might  meet  her  glance. 

Never  had  Henry  Bellenden  found  himself  in  a  more  con 
genial  scene.  Every  thing  around  him  corresponded  with  the 
elegance  of  his  taste,  and  gratified  his  love  of  the  beautiful  and 
poetic.  As  Julia  had  said,  "  every  thing  seemed  like  enchant 
ment,"  from  the  fair  young  hostess  to  the  minutest  object 
which  betrayed  the  touch  of  her  fairy  hand.  The  noble  sim 
plicity  and  frankness  of  Roland  charmed  him.  He  felt  an 
irresistible  desire  to  be  constantly  shaking  hands  with  him, 
thus  establishing  an  electrical  communication,  swifter  and 
warmer  than  words.  He  forgave  Linda  her  preference,  espe 
cially  as  it  left  Robert  free — free  to  yield,  as  he  had  no  doubt 
he  had  already  done,  to  Julia's  gentle  influence.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  him  that  one,  whose  affections  were  disengaged, 
could  know  Julia  without  loving  her;  and  the  idea  of  the  mar 
ried  Linda,  as  an  obstacle  to  his  sister's  happiness,  never  occur 
red  to  his  mind.  Dearly  as  he  had  loved  the  wife  of  his  youth, 
from  the  turf  that  covered  her  grave,  sweet  flowers  of  hope 
and  love  might  spring,  even  sweeter  for  the  tears  with  which 
he  had  moistened  its  verdure.  It  seemed  to  him  that  every 
one  must  feel  as  he  did,  turning  their  back  to  the  shadows  and 
their  face  to  the  light,  gathering  the  flower  and  trampling  on 
the  weed,  cultivating  new  affections  instead  of  brooding  with 
unavailing  sadness  over  blighted  joys.  Feeling  as  he  did,  could 
he  look  at  Robert  and  imagine  he  was  moulded,  heart  and  soul, 
like  himself?  With  that  brow  of  intense  thought,  that  eye 
whose  burning  rays  even  the  serenity  and  mildness  of  religion 
could  not  always  temper,  and  that  lip  which  even  in  silence 
spoke  of  deep,  repressed  sensibility?  Did  he  believe  the  pas 
sions  enshrined  in  such  a  form,  were  not  stronger,  more  un 
conquerable  than  his  own  ?  Had  he  placed  his  hand  on  his 
own  brow  and  felt  its  serene  expansion,  on  his  temples  where 
the  fair  hair  so  lightly,  carelessly  waved,  looked  into  his  own 


e**        -     • 

102" :  :  _  i  ;  R^B^RT  GRAHAM  : 

eyes,  so  clear  in  their  blue  depths  of  thought,  he  would  not,  it 
seems,  have  imagined  that  Robert  could  feel  and  think  as 
he  did. 

Nora,  who  found  it  impossible  to  remain  still,  flitted  about, 
looking  at  the  pictures,  at  the  statues,  plucking  the  roses  and 
wreathing  them  in  her  hair,  and  at  last  vanished  from  the  room. 
Linda  could  not  help  wondering  where  she  had  gone,  taking  so 
unceremoniously  the  freedom  of  the  house,  when  she  reappeared 
with  little  Walton  enthroned  upon  her  shoulder,  highly  de 
lighted  with  his  elevated  position.  She  had  watched  the  nurse 
when  she  carried  him  from  the  room,  thinking  it  was  time  for 
sober  babies  to  be  put  to  sleep,  and  running  after  her,  snatched 
the  infant  from  her  arms  before  she  knew  what  had  become 
of  him,  and  carried  him  back  in  triumph. 

"  Is  he  not  the  sweetest  creature  in  the  universe  ?"  she 
cried,  looking  for  some  one  to  assent  to  her  assertion,  though 
interrogatively  expressed.  The  eyes  of  the  parents  and  the 
tongue  of  Henry  immediately  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Does  he  ever  cry,  Linda  ?"  she  asked,  tossing  him  up 
with  a  wild  glee  that  made  Linda  tremble  for  the  result.  "If 
he  does,  I  shall  throw  him  down  in  a  moment.  A  crying 
baby  in  my  arms  frightens  me  more  than  a  roaring  lion.  I 
never  could  pacify  one  in  my  life." 

"I  should  not  think  you  could,"  said  Linda,  laughing,  "and 
I  insist  upon  your  giving  him  to  his  nurse,  before  he  exhibits 
his  terrific  powers.  He  is  usually  asleep  before  this  time,  and 
I  cannot  be  responsible  for  his  good  behaviour." 

Linda,  like  every  young  mother,  was  anxious  for  the  repu 
tation  of  her  first-born,  and  perceiving  the  dawn  of  terror  in 
the  soft  amazement  of  his  eyes,  she  feared  the  usual  expres 
sion  of  infantine  trepidation.  The  infant,  on  whose  drowsy 
lids  the  down  of  slumber  was  beginning  to  fall  when  Nora 
whirled  him  from  his  resting-place,  though  at  first  excited 
to  merriment,  grew  restless,  and  evidently  sought  the  means 
of  escape.  Unaccustomed  to  such  energetic  nursing,  its  arms 


A    SEQUEL   TO    LINDA.  103 

fluttered  toward  its  mother  like  the  wings  of  a  new-fledged 
bird,  and  putting  up  its  beautiful  lips,  it  burst  into  a  real 
heart-cry. 

Quick  as  lightning,  Nora  turned  and  dropped  the  infant  in 
Robert's  arms,  mischievously  thinking  that  nothing  would 
embarrass  him  more,  and  that  there  would  be  something 
laughable  in  their  mutual  consternation.  Linda,  who  had 
suddenly  risen  and  approached  them,  stopped  and  smiled. 
Robert,  instead  of  recoiling  and  looking  round  for  escape  from 
an  unwelcome  burden,  pressed  the  little  creature  gently  to  his 
bosom,  and  hushed  its  passionate  alarm.  Quiet  as  a  lamb  it 
lay,  looking  up  in  his  face,  as  if  it  would  read  into  his  inmost 
soul  with  its  earnest,  unreceding  glance ;  then  closing  its  eyes 
with  a  sweet  smile,  it  leaned  its  head  lower  and  lower  on  his 
breast  and  sunk  into  a  gentle  slumber. 

Nothing  could  have  touched  Linda  more  than  to  see  tho 
once  fiery  Robert  thus  tenderly  cradling  her  infant  in  his  arms 
with  all  a  woman's  gentleness.  It  was,  indeed,  a  beautiful 
picture,  and  no  one  admired  it  more  than  Nora,  who  had  ex 
pected  so  different  a  scene.  She  seemed  quite  subdued.  The 
effervescence  of  her  spirit  subsided,  leaving  sufficient  elasticity 
for  her  own  enjoyment  and  the  comfort  of  those  around  her. 

There  are  times  when  excessive  gayety  is  more  oppressive 
than  deep  despondency.  Its  shrill  alto  cannot  harmonize  with 
the  minor  key  of  sensibility.  There  was  a  brusquerie  about 
Nora,  an  unexpectedness  in  all  she  said  and  did,  that  kept  one 
in  a  state  of  insecurity  in  her  presence.  She  was  like  one  of 
those  substances  which  have  such  an  affinity  for  oxygen  that 
they  cannot  without  danger  be  exposed  to  atmospheric  in 
fluence. 

It  is  very  seldom  that  six  beings  with  individuality  so 
strongly  marked  are  thrown  together,  as  these  who  were 
assembled  for  the  first  time  under  the  same  roof.  Nora,  exu 
berant  in  health  and  superabundant  in  spirits,  always  seemed 
treading  on  the  very  verge  of  propriety,  reckless  what  steps 


104  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

she  took,  in  the  wild  excitement  of  the  moment.  Julia,  -with 
constitutional  delicacy  and  refinement,  fearful  of  going  beyond 
the  guarded  enclosure  which  nature  and  education  had  pre 
scribed,  trembled  at  her  own  impulses,  pure  as  they  were,  lest 
they  should  betray  her  into  error.  The  one  was  at  times  too 
r  turbulently  gay,  the  other  as  often  too  languidly  pensive. 
JJnda  possessed  the  golden  mean  of  uniform  elasticity.  Her 
gayety  was  so  chastened  by  refinement,  her  reflections  so  en 
livened  by  cheerfulness,  and  her  sensibility  so  free  from  mor 
bidness,  it  was  impossible  to  wish  her  otherwise  than  she  was. 
"  One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less,"  would  mar  the 
harmony  of  her  feminine  attributes.  She  had  passed  through 
the  refiner's  fire,  and  the  elements  of  her  character  were  not 
only  purified,  but  harmonized  by  the  great  alchymist,  suffer 
ing.  Trials  are  the  strong  winds  that  shake  the  blossoms 
from  the  tree  of  life,  bringing  down  their  fragrance  to  the 
heart  of  the  sufferer.  But  though  Linda  had  known  in  early 
life  the  discipline  of  adversity,  and  had  reason  to  bless  her 
stern  taskmaster,  there  were  unsounded  depths  within  which 
no  line  or  plummet  had  yet  fathomed ;  there  were  treasures 
of  thought  and  feeling,  hidden  like  ocean  gems  in  the  " sunless 
retreats"  of  the  deep. 

The  three  young  men  were  types  of  three  distinct  classes 
of  character. 

Henry,  with  his  bright,  hopeful,  interchanging  spirit,  re 
presented  those  suns  of  the  social  system  whose  centripetal 
attraction  drew  toward  them  living  satellites,  and  which  com 
municate  light  to  every  surrounding  object. 

Robert  was  the  emblem  of  those  who,  in  ancient  days,  sup 
ported  by  a  sublime  enthusiasm,  wrought  out  their  destiny  in 
the  loneliness  of  intense  thought,  travailing  in  the  greatness 
of  their  strength,  and  passing  on  through  fire  and  flood  to  the 
goal  of  their  pilgrimage : — of  those  who,  in  the  present  era, 
having  brought  their  passions  and  intellect  under  the  control 
of  a  mighty  will,  devote  themselves  to  one  great  purpose, 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  105 

pouring  in  all  the  energies  of  their  minds, — tributary  streams 
to  the  grand  reservoir,  which  is  to  flow  out  for  the  healing  of 
nations  : — of  those  who  consume  the  oil  of  life  over  midnight 
vigils,  or  traverse  the  pathless  wilderness  in  searching  out 
the  mysteries  of  nature;  or  who  voluntarily  clothe  themselves 
with  the  sackcloth,  and  wear  the  thorny  crown  of  suffering, 
that  they  may  work  out  for  others  an  "  exceeding  weight  of 
glory- 
Roland  came  between  these  two,  a  representative  of  that 
noble  class  of  men  who,  by  the  union  of  physical  and  intel 
lectual  power,  assume  command  over  inferior  minds,  and  make 
them  subservient  to  practical  good :  the  bone  and  sinew,  the 
strength  and  reliance  of  the  land, — who,  without  reserving 
themselves  for  great  occasions  to  reap  whole  harvests  of  re 
nown,  go  on  steadfastly  in  the  path  of  right, — overcoming  every 
obstacle,  and  breaking  down  every  circumstance,  till  the  sun 
shine  of  success  streams  unobstructed,  and  mankind  can  see 
the  print  of  their  footsteps,  and  follow  in  their  tread. 

But  poor  Judy  !  how  long  she  is  kept  waiting  in  the  door, 
where  she  has  come  to  greet  the  young  master !  There  she 
stands,  with  the  same  white  cornucopia  on  her  head,  black, 
shining,  smiling,  with  no  perceptible  change  in  her  excel 
lent  visage,  her  hands  folded  over  her  waist,  and  her  eyes 
rolled  upward  with  an  ecstatic  expression.  To  see  Master 
Robert,  who  had  just  come,  as  it  were,  from  under  the  wheels 
of  Juggernaut,  looking  so  grand  and  beautiful,  holding  that 
blessed  baby  in  his  arms  so  carefully  and  gently,  and  seeming 
to  bless  it  as  it  lay  nestling  there,  was  a  sight  that  completely 
overcame  the  susceptible  heart  of  Judy.  She  put  her  apron 
to  her  eyes,  and  an  audible  sob  announced  her  presence. 

Robert  looked  up,  and,  rising,  gave  the  young  child  to  Let 
tuce,  its  young  nurse,  for  whom  her  arms  involuntarily  ex 
tended. 

"  Oh,  Master  Robert !"  said  Judy,  as  he  shook  most  cor 
dially  her  sable  hand;  " bless  the  Lord,  that  has  brought  you 


106  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

back  to  your  country  and  your  people.  Bless  the  Lord  for 
his  wondersome  goodness  to  the  children  of  men.  I  didn't 
Aspect  to  see  this  day,  master — but  I'm  all  the  more  obleeged. 
And,  just  to  think  of  this  blessed  little  master,  sprung  up  like 
a  beautiful  cornstalk  while  you've  been  gone,  to  make  us  all 
voung  again !" 

"  We  who  are  young  have  not  had  time  to  grow  old  in 
three  years,  Judy,"  answered  Robert,  smiling  at  her  familiar 
eloquence  ;  "  and  you,  who  when  a  boy  I  thought  was  growing 
old,  are  younger  than  ever." 

"  Content,  master,  keeps  folks  young.  If  I  hadn't  the 
best  young  mistress  that  ever  lived,  I  should  feel  mighty 
old  by  this  time.  But  she  put  soft  feathers  under  my  old 
bones,  and  good  things  in  my  cabin ;  and  she  and  Master 
Roland  never  go  by  me  without  a  pleasant  word,  that  does  me 
a  heap  of  good.  Oh  !  I  tell  you,  Master  Robert,  content  is 
the  greatest  thing,  arter  all." 

"  Yes,  Judy,  it  is  the  jewel  wanting  in  the  crown  of  kings 
— second  in  value  only  to  the  pearl  which  the  merchant  pur 
chased  with  all  the  gold  he  had.  And  that,  too,  is  yours — is 
it  not?  You  understand  me — do  you  not?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  master.  You  talk  so  beautifully,  I  feel  e'enamost 
choked."  And  Judy  raised  the  whole  breadth  of  her  apron, 
instead  of  the  corner,  to  her  quivering  face. 

The  summons  to  supper,  which  had  not  been  long  pre 
paring,  though  it  may  seem  so  to  the  reader,  interrupted 
Judy's  hysterical  emotions,  and  brought  the  party  into  a  close 
familiar  circle ;  and  Robert  inquired  after  old  friends,  whose 
names  we  trust  are  not  forgotten.  "Where  was  Aristides  Long- 
wood, — the  wizard  of  the  birchen  rod,  the  repeater  of  golden 
aphorisms  ?" 

"  He  still  makes  his  home  with  us,"  answered  Linda, 
'{  from  which  he  occasionally  radiates — an  eccentric  beam  of 
light.  He  has  been  absent  now  several  weeks,  but  will  soon 
return,  I  trust,  to  welcome  his  former  pupil  and  friend.  He 


A   SEQUEL   TO    LINDA.  107 

has  already  commenced  the  education  of  our  little  Walton  on 
phrenological  principles,  and  finds  him  a  'beautiful  study." 

"Tuscarora,  the  noble  Indian,  and  Naimuna — where  are 
they  ?" 

"  They  still  occupy  the  wigwam  constructed  for  them  in 
tie  forest  shades.  We  must  visit  them  soon,  and  introduce 
yur  Northern  friends  to  these  interesting  children  of  the 
wilderness,  whose  savage  nature  is  so  charmingly  softened  by 
the  graces  of  civilization." 

Linda,  gathering  up  the  severed  links  of  former  association, 
wove  them  into  a  chain  of  events  that  connected  him  with  the 
years  that  had  fled.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carleton  still  resided  in 
Mobile.  They  had  visited  her  the  preceding  winter;  and 
what  a  happy  time  they  had  together,  dwelling  once  more  in 
imagination  in  the  beloved  shades  of  Rosebower,  where  Mrs. 
Revere  still  reigned  unrivalled  queen  over  the  hearts  of  the 
young.  Mrs.  Lee,  the  mother  of  Roland,  had  died  the  year 
after  his  marriage  ]  and  this  was  the  only  chasm  death  had 
made.  Linda  told  him  this  in  a  low  voice,  for  his  mother's 
name  was  hallowed  in  Roland's  ear,  and  she  breathed  it  softly, 
that  she  might  not  agitate  the  sacred  foliage  that  falls  over 
the  memory  of  the  dead. 

Thus  passed  away  the  first  evening  of  reunion.  The  morn 
ing  sunbeamfs  glanced  upon  Nora,  flying  about  the  garden, 
bright  as  the  bird  of  the  tropics  flashing  among  the  shrub 
bery,  and  gleaming  through  the  trellis- work;  while  Julia 
glided  near  her,  with  motions  gentle  as  the  dove's,  as  if  she 
were  seeking  an  olive-branch  in  these  luxuriant  bowers.  She 
walked  through  avenues  of  orange-trees,  whose  rich,  vivid 
green  leaves  quivered  above  her  head  with  a  soft,  joyous 
rustle,  half  covering  and  half  revealing  innumerable  balls  of 
vegetable  gold ;  through  rows  of  fragrant  lemons,  whose  fruil 
melted  into  a  paler  gold ;  and  then  she  seemed  lost  in  a  laby 
rinth  of  verdure,  through  which  the  glowing  scarlet  of  the 
pomegranate  flashed  like  the  wing  of  the  flamingo,  and  the 


108  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

sweet-scented  jessamine  sent  the  white  gleam  of  its  virgin 
blossoms ;  and,  high  above  all,  stately  pillars  of  this  beauti 
ful  colonnade,  the  superb  magnolias  rose  in  verdant  majesty, 
and  every  large,  lustrous  leaf  seemed  as  a  mirror  to  the  sun. 

Julia  felt  a  glow  of  delight  pervading  her  whole  being,  as 
she  moved  on  through  all  this  summer  pomp,  enriching  the 
lap  of  winter — for  it  was  winter  in  her  own  colder  latitude, — 
while  clouds  of  fragrance  rolled  around  her  from  the  rosy 
festoons  that  swung  from  shrub  to  shrub,  making  fairy  bridges 
and  hanging  bowers,  frolicking  all  the  time  with  the  morning 
breeze.  She  could  hardly  believe  she  was  in  the  same  world 
she  was  twelve  months  ago,  when  she  saw  the  snow-spirit 
whitening,  as  with  bridal  wreaths,  the  woodbine  arch  above 
her  door,  covering  with  fantastic  drapery  the  naked  trees,  and 
spreading  over  the  dismal  gray  of  the  landscape  a  carpet  of 
glittering  whiteness.  She  could  hardly  believe  that  she  was 
the  same  being  who  then  clung  so  adhesively  to  the  fireside 
joys  of  home,  thinking  there  was  no  happiness  beyond  its 
walls.  A  soft,  tropic  atmosphere  was  glowing  in  her  heart, 
and  an  under-current  of  feeling,  unstirred  before,  made  sweet, 
mysterious  music  as  it  flowed.  The  vague,  dim,  sinking  con 
sciousness  of  threatened  extinction,  which  she  had  known  the 
preceding  evening,  vanished  with  the  shadows  of  night. 

When  Linda  found  her  in  the  wilderness  of  sweets  through 
which  she  loved  to  roam  in  the  dewy  morning  hour,  she  was 
charmed  with  the  animation,  the  glow  of  her  countenance. 

"  She  is  lovely,"  thought  she ;  and  the  sentiment  passed 
from  her  heart  to  her  eyes,  and  Julia  felt  it  more  than  if  it 
had  been  uttered.  "I  thought,  last  night,  she  wanted  ex 
pression;  but  I  did  not  do  her  justice.  Robert  must  love  her, 
and  then  we  shall  all  be  happy." 

Whiie  she  looked  earnestly  in  Julia's  face,  holding  her  hand 
in  hers,  she  saw  the  brightest  colour  suddenly  mount  into  her 
cheeks,  and  the  soft  palm  she  held  throbbed  as  if  with  new-born 
pulsations. 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  109 

"All  I"  exclaimed  she  to  herself,  as  the  orange  boughs  parted, 
and  Robert  stood  in  the  path  before  them,  "whether  wooed  or 
not,  I  see  but  too  plainly  that  her  heart  is  won.  If  he  prove 
insensible  to  so  much  loveliness  and  sensibility,  he  must  be 
either  more  or  less  than  man." 

She  looked  at  him,  anxious  to  read  in  his  countenance  corre 
sponding  emotions ;  but  his  pale,  calm  face  had  an  expression 
such  as  the  prayer-angel  leaves  on  the  brow  of  the  worshipper. 
She  saw  now,  by  the  clear  light  of  day,  that,  though  unfaded, 
he  was  changed.  The  features,  hair,  eyes,  were  the  same,  and 
yet  they  left  as  different  an  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  be 
holder,  as  a  picture  seen  by  the  blaze  of  a  conflagration  and 
the  same  illumined  by  the  holy  splendour  of  moonlight.  The 
night  before,  the  agitation  of  meeting,  after  a  parting  like 
theirs,  had  restored  to  his  countenance  much  of  its  original  ex 
pression  ;  now  she  recognised  the  Christian  missionary,  whose 
lips  were  worthy  to  proclaim  the  tidings  of  salvation,  and  whose 
eloquence  was  said  to  roll  in  "  waves  of  glory "  over  the  dark 
wastes  of  paganism. 

Nora  and  Henry  met  them  from  a  crossing  path.  How  he 
found  her,  it  would  be  difficult  to  tell,  but  he  seemed  to  have 
steadied  her  erratic  movements  into  quite  a  sober,  rational  gait. 
She  was  certainly  on  her  "  good  behaviour,"  and  appeared  re 
solved  to  atone,  by  her  lady-like  propriety,  for  the  girlish  rude 
ness  of  the  evening.  Something  that  Henry  had  been  saying 
had  given  a  feminine  expression  to  her  face  that  was  marvel 
lously  becoming. 

"  Have  I  been  trespassing  too  much  ?"  she  asked,  raising 
her  hands,  which  were  full  of  flowers,  as  she  approached  Linda 
"What  a  charming,  charming  place  is  this!  A  second  edition 
of  the  garden  of  Eden,  only  revised  and  improved.  Mr.  Bel- 
lenden  said,  just  now,  that  you  looked  like  an  unfallen  Eve 
Was  not  that  a  pretty  speech  ?" 

"Yes;  but  he  paid  you  a  higher  compliment  than  he  did 
inc." 

25 


110  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"It  is  said  that  a  gentleman  cannot  pay  a  more  graceful 
compliment  to  a  lady  than  by  speaking  high  praises  of  another 
in  her  presence." 

"  That  is,  he  does  not  believe  me  mean  enough  to  be  envi 
ous,"  exclaimed  Nora,  looking  admiringly  at  Linda.  "  No, 
indeed,  I  never  knew  what  envy  or  jealousy  meant,  by  my 
own  experience.  I  have  ten  thousand  faults,  but  they  are  of 
the  open,  daring  kind.  No  one  enjoys  more  real,  heartfelt 
pleasure  than  I  do,  in  admiring  all  that  is  beautiful  and 
excellent,  though  I  may  be  reminded  by  contrast  of  my  own 
deficiencies." 

"Were  you  the  owner  of  all  the  faults  you  claim,"  said 
Henry,  his  countenance  beaming  with  approbation,  "your  can 
dour  and  disinterestedness  would  redeem  them  all." 

"  I  did  not  say  that  to  be  praised,"  said  Nora,  pulling  her 
flowers  with  ruthless  fingers.  "  I  must  be  the  worst  creature 
in  the  world,  for  whenever  I  utter  a  becoming  sentiment,  every 
one  looks  as  pleased  and  surprised  as  if  they  had  found  that 
precious  jewel  in  the  toad's  head  which  Shakspeare  has  de 
scribed." 

"  Nora,"  said  Linda,  rebukingly,  "  were  you  ever  serious  five 
minutes  in  succession  ?" 

"  Yes !  when  I  thought  I  was  drowning.  Were  you  ever 
under  the  cold  water,  Linda  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  she,  turning  pale  at  the  remembrance. 
"  It  seemed  that  I  lived  ages  in  those  moments  of  horror.  I 
never  shall  forget  them." 

The  scene  of  the  blazing  boat,  her  drowning  father,  and  her 
own  rescue,  brought  so  suddenly  to  her  recollection,  made  her 
shiver  as  if  a  cold  breeze  blew  upon  her.  Nora  regretted  hav 
ing  asked  the  question,  and  to  turn  her  thoughts  in  a  different 
channel,  she  gave  a  graphic  description  of  her  flight  through 
the  woods,  her  immersion  in  Stony  Creek,  and  of  Henry's 
gallant  bearing. 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  Ill 

te  Yes !"  she  said,  pausing  suddenly,  and  looking  at  him  with 
a  countenance  quite  radiant  with  gratitude ;  "  to  his  self-pos 
session  and  courage  I  owe  the  salvation  of  my  life.  It  was  my 
own  headstrong  will  that  plunged  me  into  peril,  and  I  did  not 
deserve  that  he  should  share  my  danger,  and  avert  it  so  gene 
rously  for  me." 

"I  did  not  do  it  to  be  praised,  Nora,"  replied  Henry,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  feeling.  "  I  should  have  been  the  veriest  mon 
ster  the  world  ever  knew,  to  have  seen  any  woman  in  peril  and 
not  attempted  her  relief.  Surely,  then" —  { 

"He  would  have  done  as  much  for  you,  good  old  aunt  Judy, 
I  know  he  would,"  said  Nora,  throwing  the  flower-petals  she 
had  been  pulling  off  and  gathering  in  the  palm  of  her  hand, 
in  a  very  shower  over  his  head. 

"  That  is  what  Roland  said  to  me,"  said  Linda,  unconscious 
of  the  application  of  her  words,  "  when  he  arrested  our  horses 
on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and  I — I  loved  him  more  for  his 
humanity  than  I  admired  him  for  his  gallantry." 

A  visible  blush  passed  over  Nora's  blooming  cheek.  She 
suddenly  turned  into  a  different  path,  where  Robert  and  Julia 
were  slowly  walking. 

Ever  since  Robert  had  confided  to  Julia  so  unreservedly  the 
history  of  his  heart,  he  had  treated  her  with  the  tenderness 
and  affectionate  freedom  of  a  brother.  He  found  a  charm  in 
her  sympathy  that  was  as  irresistible  as  it  was  pure.  When  with 
her,  he  thought  more  of  heaven  than  earth.  She  seemed  to 
him  one  of  those  beings  such  as  Jacob  beheld  in  his  dream,  one 
of  those  coming  and  going  angels  commissioned  to  bear  up  the 
thoughts  of  man  on  high,  and  to  bring  down  an  answer  to  his 
prayers.  And  he  talked  to  her  of  heaven  and  heavenly  things, 
without  thinking  he  was  making  earth  too  dear  to  her.  Ther^ 
had  been  moments  at  Pine  Grove  when  his  heart  had  felt  a  new 
life  in  her  presence,  and  she  seemed  to  stand  on  the  lower 
rounds  of  the  ladder,  coming  with  blessings  to  earth,  rather 
than  bearing  aspirations  to  heaven ;  and  had  they  remained 


112  ROBERT   GRAHAM. 

together  there,  time  perchance  might  have  wrought  out  Julia's 
triumph.  Will  it  now  ? 

They  all  gradually  approached  the  house,  which  was  sur 
rounded  by  a  light,  graceful  verandah,  supported  by  airy  pillars, 
all  covered  by  some  perennial  vines.  The  roses  and  vines  that 
shaded  the  windows  were  planted  below,  and  were  trained  to 
'.limb  up,  through  apertures  made  for  their  accommodation. 

"  I  really  thought  these  vines  grew  out  of  the  floor,"  said 
Nora,  "  and  that  the  flowers  grew  out  of  the  marble  basket 
last  night." 

Roland  met  them  on  the  steps  of  the  verandah. 

"  Truant,"  said  Linda,  "where  have  you  been,  when  so  many 
attractions  tempted  you  to  remain?" 

He  smiled,  but  she  saw  a  shadow  on  his  brow.  "Ah !" 
thought  she,  "is  the  parting  hour  come  so  soon  ?" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

YES  !  the  parting  hour  was  near.  Roland  had  received  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Hunly,  which  made  it  imperative  for  him  to 
start  immediately  for  New  Orleans,  and  thence  he  would  sail 
for  Liverpool  without  delay.  He  had  been  expecting  the 
summons,  he  was  ready  and  waiting ;  and  yet  he  felt  an  un 
willingness  to  go  he  had  not  known  on  former  occasions.  It 
was  not  that  for  the  first  time  he  was  about  to  cross  the  ocean, 
for  that  seemingly  boundless  barrier  was  dwindled  into  com 
parative  insignificance  by  the  wondrous  facilities  of  navigation. 
Besides,  he  had  looked  forward  with  rapture  to  the  idea  of 
being  far,  far  away  from  land,  away  from  the  compressing 
shores  and  bounding  bluffs  which  restrain  the  inland  streams — 
with  nothing  but  heaven  above,  and  the  waves  below,  and 
his  own  soul  within.  It  was  the  realization  of  his  boyish 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  113 

dreams,  to  be  far  from  land,  in  a  great  storm.  No  matter  if 
the  waves  ran  mountain  high — it  would  be  a  glorious  thing  to 
ride  on  their  foaming  crests.  Even  if  the  ship  went  down  in 
the  unfathomable  abysses  of  the  deep,  was  it  not  grander  to 
lie  in  such  a  magnificent  grave,  with  an  illimitable  pall  sweep 
ing  over  him,  and  the  ocean  surge  murmuring  an  everlasting 
requiem,  than  to  be  laid  in  a  narrow  coffin,  then  in  a  six-feet 
bed  of  clay  ?  He  used  to  think  thus  as  a  boy ;  but  now  he 
was  a  husband  and  a  father,  and  the  sweet  drawings  of  home 
ties  were  stronger  than  his  early  yearnings. 

And  in  spite  of  his  implicit  confidence  in  Linda's  love  and 
Robert's  integrity, — in  spite  of  his  freedom  from  suspicion  and 
jealousy,  he  could  not  help  wishing  the  visit  of  Robert  had 
been  deferred  till  his  return.  It  was  a  singular  coincidence 
that  brought  him  back  from  India's  distant  clime,  just  as  he 
was  called  to  leave  his  native  land.  He  did  not  believe  that 
Robert  had  ceased  to  love  Linda  when  he  so  nobly  renounced 
her.  He  did  not  believe  that  religion  destroyed  the  passions 
it  chastened  and  hallowed ;  and,  enlightened  by  the  deep  love 
of  his  own  heart,  he  knew,  he  saw  in  the  moment  of  meeting 
that  he  still  regarded  Linda  with  more  than  a  brother's  love. 
He  might  struggle  with  these  feelings ;  he  knew  he  did  strug 
gle  with  them,  and  perhaps  believed  them  conquered;  but 
they  existed,  and  even  the  green  withs  of  integrity  and 
holiness  might  be  burst  asunder  by  the  giant-hand  of  pas 
sion. 

Roland  despised  himself  for  suffering  such  apprehensions  to 
enter  his  mind.  They  were  unworthy  of  himself,  and  insulting 
to  Robert, — ungrateful  to  Linda,  too,  whose  attachment  had 
beeli  so  disinterested  and  so  unwavering.  He  would  sooner 
cut  off  the  hand  on  which  glittered  the  golden  pledge  of  her 
maiden  troth,  than  breathe  to  her  the  faintest  whisper  of  dis 
trust.  Much  as  Roland  blamed  himself  for  his  involuntary 
emotions,  the  noblest,  most  magnanimous  man  in  the  universe 
would  have  felt  as  he  did,  if  he  loved  as  devotedly, — the  ob 


114  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

ject,  such  a  being  as  Linda, — and  his  former  rival,  a  Robert 
Graham. 

That  evening,  just  at  twilight,  as  if  mutually  understanding 
each  other's  wishes,  Robert  and  Roland  met  in  an  avenue 
leading  from  the  garden  toward  a  thicket,  and  Roland,  turn 
ing,  walked  in  the  same  direction  with  Robert,  leaving  the  gar 
den  behind.  He  took  his  arm,  and  for  a  moment  neither  of 
them  spoke. 

"I  regret  extremely  to  leave  you  so  soon,"  said  Roland. 
"We  have  hardly  had  time  to  exchange  the  courtesies  of 
strangers,  much  less  the  confidence  of  friends.  I  shall  find 
you  here,  however,  on  my  return." 

"  I  cannot  be  idle  so  long,"  answered  Robert.  "  As  soon 
as  I  hear  from  Rayner,  I  shall  decide  in  what  vineyard  to 
labour  :  whether  beyond  the  Ganges'  idol  stream,  or  amid  the 
darker  paganism  still  found  in  my  native  land,  I  know  not  yet, 
— darker,  because  contrasted  with  the  blaze  of  Christianity  re 
vealing  its  midnight  shadows.  I  think,  however,  I  shall  go 
back  to  the  scene  of  my  past  mission.  I  have  been  to  the 
home  of  my  youth,  and  found  it  desolate.  Friendship  has  for 
a  while  cheered  its  loneliness,  but  it  is  only  a  passing  beam, 
not  an  abiding  light.  Roland  Lee, — in  the  warm  bosom  of 
your  own  blissful  home,  you  cannot  dream  of  the  dullness, 
the  abandonment  of  desolation  I  experienced  when  I  first  en 
tered  the  shades  of  Pine  Grove,  after  years  of  exile,  where  I 
knew  there  was  no  living  heart  whose  throbs  would  be 
quickened  by  the  wanderer's  return.  Not  a  light  was  gleam 
ing  in  the  negro  cabins ;  even  my  dog  slept,  unawakened  by 
his  master's  returning  tread.  The  moon  shone  with  lonely 
lustre  on  my  mother's  tomb,  and  every  ray  of  welcome  seenled 
clustering  round  the  cold  and  silent  marble.  Never  have  I 
shed  such  bitter  tears  as  there  mingled  with  the  dews  of  night. 
Roland !  religion  is  a  great  sustainer  of  man's  soul,  but  it  is 
only  the  manifestation  of  the  Almighty,  not  in  itself  almighty, 
and  it  cannot  always  triumph  over  the  weakness  of  humanity. 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.'  115 

The  desolate  cry  of  a  lonely  heart  will  sometimes  be  heard 
even  above  the  hosannas  of  angels." 

Roland  was  greatly  moved  by  this  unexpected  outburst  of 
feeling  breaking  through  the  usual  restraint  of  Robert's  manner. 
He  hated  himself  for  the  inquietude  he  had  felt, — for  his  self 
ishness  in  having  grudged  him,  by  whose  heart-penury  lie  had 
become  rich,  the  blessings  of  his  own  home,  when  he  him 
self  was  unable  to  enjoy  them.  Though  he  had  not  given 
utterance  to  his  distrust,  he  was  conscious  of  having  admitted 
it,  and  it  seemed  to  his  high,  chivalrous  sense  of  honour  that 
he  owed  Robert  a  reparation  for  an  injury,  none  the  less  deep 
for  being  unknown  to  him. 

"No,  Robert,"  said  he,  in  all  the  warm  frankness  of  his 
usual  manner;  "you  must  not  go.  Remain,  and  be  the  guard 
ian  of  my  household,  the  protector  of  my  wife  and  child. 
Smile  not — I  know  you  will  not — at  the  solemnity  of  my  words. 
I  trust  the  term  of  my  absence  will  be  short,  and  with  one 
leap  almost  we  can  cross  the  Atlantic  waves.  But  love  makes 
us  cowards.  The  storm  may  rise,  winds  may  wreck,  or  flames 
consume  my  bark,  as  it  has  done  a  thousand  others.  I  try  to 
imagine  the  possibility  of  such  a  fate.  I  try  to  think  of  it  with 
submission,  in  shadowing  it  forth,  but,  God  forgive  me  !  I  can 
not — cannot  do  it.  Robert — should  it  indeed  be  mine — should 
the  few  brief  years  of  happiness  God  has  given  me,  be  all  that 
are  allotted" — 

He  turned  aside,  choked  with  emotions  he  could  not  repress 
and  was  ashamed  to  betray. 

"  I  did  not  know  I  was  so  weak,"  he  cried,  passing  his  hand 
hastily  over  his  glistening  eyes.  "  I  did  not  intend  to  express 
such  a  misgiving,  not  foreboding.  No,  I  never  cherished  a 
presentiment;  but  apprehension  is  the  darkening  shadow  of 
love.  I  tremble,  too,  at  the  excess  of  my  happiness.  I  know 
that  it  cannot  be  always  thus,  for  I  am  mortal.  Some  have 
their  whole  life-path  covered  with  thin  beaten  gold,  that  quivers 
and  breaks  at  every  step ;  others  walk  for  a  while  over  golden 


116  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

pavements  that  seem  solid  as  marble,  and  guarded  on  either 
side  by  golden  walls.  Yet  the  seeming  gold  may  all  at  once 
be  as  brittle  glass.  They  may  sink  or  be  crushed  in  the  mo 
ment  of  security.  Their  gold  has  not  been  beaten.  They 
have  been  wading  through  it,  as  it  were.  But  I  do  not  mean 
to  be  selfish,  Robert ;  I  wanted  to  speak  of  you.  Why  should 
you  be  lonely  when  there  is  so  much  loveliness  and  worth  you 
might  appropriate  if  you  wished ;  so  many  flowers  you  might 
gather  to  your  bosom,  and  make  its  wilderness  blossom  like 
the  rose  ?  Do  I  displease  you  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Robert,  with  a  melancholy  smile,  "  I  am 
grateful  for  every  mark  of  interest ;  but  every  man  knows  his 
own  capacities  for  happiness,  and  his  power  of  imparting  it  to 
others.  Every  man  must  work  out  his  own  destiny,  some  in 
the  sunshine  and  some  in  the  shade.  I  was  not  born  for 
domestic  happiness.  The  elements  of  my  character  are  too 
stormy.  Though  the  bow  of  peace  has  been  set  upon  the 
clouds,  the  vapours  are  rolling  near  the  horizon  ready  to  gather 
at  the  master's  will." 

"Nay,  Robert,  you  are  as  gentle  now  as  the  unwcancd 
lamb.  No  one  lives,  better  fitted  than  yourself  for  the  hap 
piness  to  which  you  deny  the  claim." 

"Do  not  urge  me  on  this  subject,"  said  Robert,  and  there 
was  something  in  his  countenance  that  forbade  Roland  to  say 
more.  It  was  not  displeasure,  it  was  not  haughtiness  or  self- 
will,  but  he  seemed  to  retire  behind  a  cloud. 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  till  they  came  to  a  bend  in  the 
avenue,  when  Roland  proposed  that  they  should  return.  The 
bright,  mellow,  but  brief  twilight  of  Southern  climes  was 
already  sinking  into  the  gloom  of  night, — that  soft  religious 
gloom,  between  the  splendour  of  day  and  the  starry  pomp  of 
a  darker  hour.  It  was  the  first  time  these  young  men  had 
ever  walked  side  by  side,  in  intimate  communion  with  each 
other,  and  they  felt  drawn  toward  each  other  by  a  new  and 
strong  attraction — the  attraction  of  mutual  confidence.  It  is 


A   SEQUEL  TO   LINDA.  117 

true  there  had  been  no  formal  revelations  made,  but  they 
both  had  glimpses  of  each  other's  heart  by  the  lightning 
flash  of  feeling,  showing  depths  unknown  before. 

"And  you  really  go  to-morrow V  said  Robert. 

"  By  the  dawn  of  day — I  shall  not  see  you  again  alone,  and 
once  more  I  repeat,  that  I  go  in  the  full  confidence,  that 
should  danger  or  sorrow  approach  those  far  dearer  than  my 
own  life,  you  will  guard  them  with  a  brother's  arm  and  a 
father's  heart." 

"  Think  of  me  as  brother,  father,  protector,  friend,"  an 
swered  Robert,  with  thrilling  emphasis,  "  and  by  every  holy 
association  connected  with  each  sacred  office,  your  noble  confi 
dence  shall  never  be  betrayed." 

Roland  returned  the  firm  grasp  of  his  hand  with  a  pressure 
that  spoke  volumes.  As  they  passed  through  the  garden,  they 
saw  light  forms  moving  in  the  verandah,  and  they  heard  the 
sound  of  mingling  voices ;  but  Linda's  form  was  not  there, 
Linda's  voice  was  not  heard  in  the  mingling  sounds.  She  was 
sitting  alone  at  the  window  of  her  own  room,  behind  the  rose- 
coloured  -curtains,  trying  to  keep  back  her  fast-rising  tears. 
It  was  a  low  window,  in  whose  shaded  recess  she  often  sat 
with  Roland,  especially  at  this  serene,  dusky  hour.  She  was 
sure  he  would  come  to  her  when  he  missed  her  from  the  family 
group,  and  she  breathed  on  the  palm  of  her  hand  and  pressed 
it  on  her  dewy  eyes,  to  dry  up  the  moisture  that  would  gather 
beneath  their  drooping  lashes. 

"Is  this  keeping  your  promise,  Linda?"  said  he,  lifting 
the  curtain  and  taking  a  seat  by  her  side.  "Is  this  the 
dauntless  heroine,  who  sometimes  declares  that  she  was  born 
to  be  a  hero's  wife,  and  follow,  if  need  be,  her  husband  to  the 
battle-field  ?  Have  I  not  heard  you  extol  the  noble  dames  of 
the  Revolution,  for  their  Spartan  fortitude  and  unblenching 
resolution.  This  is  a  very  trifling  occasion,  I  know ;"  added 
he,  gently  drawing  her  hand  from  her  eyes,  and  smiling  aa 
she  concealed  them  again  on  his  bosom.  "  The  daughters  of 


118  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

fashion  would  laugh  to  see  you  send  one  sigh  after  your  hus 
band  on  such  a  mere  pleasure  voyage  as  I  am  about  to  take. 
Think  how  soon  I  may  return,  and  what  charming  companions 
you  have  to  beguile  the  hours  of  my  absence.  I  fear  you  will 
not  miss  me  at  all." 

"  Oh,  Roland,  how  can  you  speak  thus,  when  you  know  I 
live  but  in  you?" 

"  You  forget  that  powerful  rival,  who  has  infused  the  poison 
of  jealousy  in  the  fountains  of  my  joy — our  own  bewitching 
boy.  Is  not  the  son  already  dearer  than  the  father  ?  Methinks 
he  ought  to  be." 

"  Ingrate !"  exclaimed  Linda,  ayou  know  that  I  love  him 
more  for  your  own  sake  even  than  his  own.  Even  now  I  left 
him,  stretching  out  his  little  arms  for  me  to  caress  him,  that  I 
might  sit  lonely  here  and  think  of  you." 

"  I  am  not  worthy  of  so  much  love,  my  Linda,"  cried  he, 
clasping  her  to  his  heart  with  passionate  tenderness,  and  kiss 
ing  once  and  again  her  pale  cheek.  "  It  humbles,  while  it 
exalts  me.  Oh  !  how  happy  we  have  been  together,  Linda ! 
Have  we  not  ?  Our  love  has  been  all  sunshine.  No  cloud,  not 
the  faintest  shadow  of  one,  has  dimmed  its  lustre  or  chilled  its 
warmth.  The  cold  breath  of  suspicion  has  never  blighted  one 
bosom  flower  Tell  me,  my  own  dear  wife,  before  the  hearts 
now  throbbing  as  one  are  separated  from  each  other,  have  I 
ever  planted  one  pang  in  the  bosom  I  would  die  to  defend  ? 
Tell  me,  if  I  have  ever  unconsciously  wounded,  by  a  rude  or 
thoughtless  word.  Man's  nature,  at  the  best,  is  but  rough 
compared  with  woman's,  and  our  softest  touches  may  some 
times  bruise  its  gentleness." 

"  Oh,  Roland — who  so  gentle,  so  loving  and  kind,  as  you 
have  always  been  ?  I  have  never  known  a  wish  that  you 
have  not  anticipated,  a  joy  that  you  have  not  crowned  with  a 
brighter  blessing.  There  are  few  that  can  feel  as  we  do,  for 
we  have  neither  of  us  ever  known  even  a  fancied  preference  for 
another.  We  have  given  each  other  all  the  wealth  of  love  we 


A   SEQUEL   TO    LINDA.  119 

had.  Oh,  yes !  from  the  moment  when  I  first  knew  you  to 
the  present  hour,  you  have  been  and  ever  will  be  the  guardian 
angel  of  my  life." 

"  Ever  will  be,  Linda  T'  he  repeated,  in  the  deep,  tremulous 
under-tones  of  tenderness  and  love.  "  Bless  you,  ten  thou 
sand  times,  for  a  confession  which,  often  heard,  never  made 
my  heart  vibrate  to  such  sweet,  yet  melancholy  music  before. 
It  will  come  to  me  when  pacing  the  reeling  deck  or  watching 
the  midnight  billows.  But  even  your  love  cannot  stretch  into 
the  future,  Linda.  No  pioneer  has  ever  cleared  its  untrodden 
waste,  to  tell  us  where  our  feet  may  travel.  Other  guardian 
angels  may  be  waiting  to  assume  my  mission,  more  watchful 
and  more  faithful  than  I  have  been — No — I  recall  the  words 
— that  they  could  never  be." 

There  are  moments  in  the  experience  of  every  individual 
when  the  tide  of  the  heart  overflows,  like  the  Egyptian  river, 
and  cannot  be  restrained.  Few  utter  all  that  the  spirit 
prompts.  An  hermetic  seal  closes  the  lips  that  burn  with 
the  unuttered  thought.  Because  brass  is  more  sounding  than 
gold,  they  wrap  themselves  in  silence,  and  then  wonder  they 
are  not  understood.  This  is  not  well,  for  speech  manifests 
the  abundant  heart,  and  silence  is  the  atmosphere  of  death. 
How  many,  after  parting  with  the  friend  whom  they  have 
never  more  beheld,  have  sighed,  oh !  how  unavailingly,  over 
the  remembrance  of  the  cold  parting  hour ! 

"  If  they  had  only  known  how  I  loved  them !  If  I  had 
only  breathed  with  my  lips  the  language  of  my  soul !"  is  the 
cry  that  rises  from  the  weeping  heart,  when  left  to  pour  out 
its  love  and  sorrow  into 

"  The  dull,  cold  ear  of  death." 

Oh,  thou,  whoever  thou  art,  who  hast  guardianship  over  one 
fond  heart,  fear  not  to  breathe  in  words  the  tenderness  thou 
art  content  only  to  feel.  Break  down  the  barrier  of  pride 
that  opposes  thine  utterance,  and  let  thy  words  gush  forth  in 


120  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

showers  of  tenderness,  fertilizing  the  dry  and  thirsty  heart. 
The  time  may  soon  come  when  the  hand  which  now  seeks 
the  warm  pressure  of  yours  will  be  cold  and  pulseless, — when 
the  rosy  doors  of  speech,  which  your  silence  has  so  often 
closed,  will  be  shut  forever :  for  there  is  no  voice  in  the  grave, 
nor  any  fond  device.  The  electric  wire  is  broken  that  sent 
the  thrill  from  heart  to  heart.  The  lightning  glance  is 
quenched  in  night.  The  living  is  cut  off  from  the  dead. 
Love  stands  shivering  on  the  brink  of  the  dividing  chasm, 
and  over  its  bridgeless  depths  goes  forth  the  wailing  accents — 

"  Come  back,  poor  cheated  heart,  receive  all  the  wealth  of 
which  thou  hast  been  defrauded.  Roll  away  the  stone  from 
the  door  of  the  sepulchre,  even  as  I  roll  it  away  from  the 
gates  of  speech,  and  learn  the  height,  the  length,  the  depth 
of  my  unuttered  love." 

The  only  answer  is  the  melancholy  wind,  that  shakes  the 
dew  from  the  grave-grass  and  the  willow's  weeping  foliage. 

Linda  did  not  forget  what  was  due  to  her  friends,  in  the 
indulgence  of  selfish  regret.  She  joined  the  evening  circle, 
not  gay,  but  cheerful;  and  Roland  never  exerted  himself 
more  for  the  social  happiness  of  his  guests.  Nora  did  not 
disturb  with  discordant  merriment  the  general  harmony  of 
feeling,  and  Henry  repeated  to  himself  a  hundred  times — 

"  How  charming  Nora  can  be  when  she  pleases  !" 

The  "  charming  Nora"  was  very  sorry  that  Roland  was 
going  to  leave  them,  and  expressed  her  regret  in  very  animated 
terms.  Julia  was  sorry,  too,  but  she  could  not  tell  him  so,  as 
Nora  did.  He  had  already  won  much  of  her  admiration  and 
esteem,  but  she  still  wondered  that  Linda  should  prefer 
him  to  Robert  Graham.  It  was  surprising,  incredible.  She 
did  not  reflect  that  she  was  looking  at  Robert  through  the 
medium  of  her  own  heart  and  imagination,  while  Linda  be 
held  Roland  through  her  own. 

Roland  was  to  start  by  dawn  of  day.  Robert  and  Henry 
were  to  accompany  him  to  his  boat,  which  lay  at  the  landing 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  121 

just  below  Rosavilla.  He  resolved  to  steal  silently  away 
without  awaking  Linda,  so  as  to  spare  himself  the  pain  of 
saying  good-by.  They  sat  up  till  past  the  midnight  hour, 
and  slumber  falls  heavily  on  lids  wet  with  tears,  so  that  it  was 
easy  to  accomplish  his  design. 

The  waning  moon  mingled  its  light  with  the  faint  dawn  of 
awakening  day.  It  bathed  the  room  in  a  soft  flood  of  light, 
and  hung  like  a  silver  drapery  over  the  bed  where  Linda 
slept.  The  little  crib,  where  the  baby  slumbered,  and  which 
was  placed  near  her  own  couch,  was  also  flooded  with  the  same 
glimmering  lustre.  Roland,  ready  for  departure,  stood  be 
tween  the  two, — gazing  first  on  one,  then  the  other,  with  the 
"  longing,  lingering  look"  of  intense  affection.  He  did  not 
fear  that  his  kisses  would  awaken  the  sleeping  infant,  so 
closely  locked  were  his  golden  dreams,  and,  bending  over  him, 
he  kissed  his  brow,  cheek,  and  lips,  and  every  curl  of  his 
silken  hair.  The  child  smiled,  as  they  say  babies  do  when 
the  angels  whisper  to  them,  and  its  long  eyelashes  quivered 
as  if  with  dreaming  rapture. 

"  Heaven  bless  thee,  my  darling,  my  beautiful,  innocent 
boy !"  said  Roland,  within  himself.  "  Thou  wilt  not  miss  ine, 
but  I  shall  carry  thee  with  me  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  thou 
morning-flower  of  Paradise.  And  thou,  my  best  beloved," 
turning  to  his  unconscious  wife — 

"  Oh  !  what  a  charm  to  love's  fond  eye 
Are  beauties  that  in  slumber  lie, 
When  all-confiding  they  are  given 
To  faith,  that's  watched  alone  by  heaven." 

Spell-bound  by  this  enchantment,  Roland  lingered,  scarcely 
daring  to  breathe,  lest  he  should  disturb  the  serene  depth 
of  her  repose.  She  was  pale,  but  it  was  the  soft  pale 
ness  of  the  pearl,  made  lustrous  by  the  moonlight.  She 
seemed  to  melt  into  the  rays,  so  entirely  they  harmonized 
with  the  pensive  sweetness  of  her  reposing  features.  One 


122  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

fair  hand  lay  drooping  over  the  cover;  on  the  other  her  cheek 
was  pillowed.  Borne  down  by  the  oppressive  tenderness  of 
his  emotions,  Koland  knelt  by  the  bedside,  and  his  soul  went 
up  in  prayer  to  God  for  the  treasures  he  had  committed  to 
his  keeping. 

"  I  will  not  wake  thee,  my  beloved,"  he  sighed,  rising  from 
his  knees,  and  bending  his  face  to  hers;  "  I  will  not  wake 
thee  even  by  a  kiss;  but  I  will  bless  thee  now — and  bless  thee 
forever." 

Pressing  his  lips  on  a  soft  ringlet  that  lay  slumberously  on 
the  sheet,  he  turned  away  and  left  the  room. 

As  he  passed  out  into  the  open  air,  he  paused  under  the 
shade  of  the  verandah,  that  he  might  meet  his  friends  with  a 
tranquil  brow.  The  singular  lustre  of  the  hour  impressed 
him,  pre-occupied  as  he  was,  with  a  new  sense  of  beauty. 
The  dim  gold  of  the  morning  twilight  was  gleaming  up  from 
the  verge  of  the  eastern  horizon  in  lengthening  radii,  and 
melted  off  in  pencilled  softness  on  a  sea  of  azure;  while  the 
moon,  shining  with  languishing  glory,  seemed  to  mourn  over 
the  world  from  which  it  was  about  to  withdraw  its  light. 

The  voices  of  his  friends,  who  were  ready  to  accompany 
him  to  the  river,  and  the  awakening  sounds  of  negro  life  heard 
in  the  yard,  warned  Roland  that  the  moment  of  departure  was 
arrived,  and  no  one  ever  waited  for  him.  He  was  gone,  and 
the  mistress  of  Rosavilla  felt  the  first  day  of  absence  long  and 
desolate. 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  123 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AN  incident  occurred  a  short  time  after  Roland's  departure 
which  interrupted,  in  a  startling  manner,  the  quietude  of  the 
household. 

It  was  in  the  early  evening,  Southern,  not  Northern  evening, 
commencing  after  the  sun's  zenith  hour,  Lettuce,  the  sub-nurse 
of  little  "Walton,  (Judy  considered  herself  the  principal,)  was 
in  the  habit  of  carrying  him  abroad  in  pleasant  weather,  and 
sometimes  she  indulged  her  rambling  propensities  farther  than 
Linda  would  have  approved,  had  she  been  aware  of  the  length 
of  her  excursions.  But  as  the  child  was  exceedingly  fond  of 
her,  and  she  always  brought  him  back  in  safety,  with  his  baby 
cheeks  blooming  with  exercise  and  excitement,  Linda  did  not 
dream  of  danger,  especially  on  her  own  grounds.  She  and 
Roland  often  accompanied  them ;  but  now  Roland  was  gone, 
and  she  had  friends  with  her  whose  demands  upon  her  time 
and  attention  forbade  the  excessive  indulgence  of  a  mother's 
cares.  Every  bright,  sunny  day,  little  Walton,  looking,  as 
Aunt  Judy  said,  "like  a  show  baby  of  the  Lord,"  was  carried 
out  by  his  proud  young  nurse,  who  thought  his  little  sky-blue 
cloak,  edged  with  snowy  ermine,  his  white  beaver  hat  and  fea 
thers,  fastened  under  his  chin  with  blue  ribands,  were  the 
" beautifullest  things"  her  eye  ever  beheld;  far  more  beautiful 
than  the  fair  baby  himself,  dearly  as  she  loved  him.  Lettuce 
was  a  smart,  trim,  bright-looking  girl  herself,  who  was  very 
fond  of  dressing  nicely,  and  her  inclination  was  always  in 
dulged.  The  nurse  of  little  Master  Walton  respected  herself, 
and  she  would  have  thought  it  profanation  to  wait  upon  the 
child  in  soiled  and  untidy  garments.  So  they  were  quite  a 
remarkable  pair,  Lettuce  and  the  infant  master  of  Rosavilla; 
and  as  they  were  seen  gliding  about  the  woods,  he  in  his 
princely  costume,  and  she  with  a  handkerchief  of  bright  yel- 


124  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

low  or  brilliant  scarlet  twisted  coquettishly  round  her  head, 
they  lighted  them  up  with  a  glow  and  a  colouring,  as  if  the 
wings  of  gorgeous  plumed  birds  were  fluttering  among  the 
shades.  Sometimes  Lettuce  would  spread  her  bright-plaided 
handkerchief  on  the  ground,  and  placing  the  baby  on  the  mimic 
carpet,  fill  his  lap  with  hickory  nuts,  or  some  of  nature's  wild 
toys,  while  she  explored  some  dingle  where  she  did  not  think 
it  prudent  to  take  him.  He  was  the  most  fearless  little  crea 
ture  in  the  world,  and  would  sit  alone  in  the  deep  woods,  look 
ing  round  on  the  tall  trees,  wondering  (we  suppose)  if  they 
were  whispering  all  the  time  of  him,  or  looking  up  to  the  blue 
sky,  that  peeped  through  their  green  tuft-knots,  with  his  soft, 
innocent  hazel  eyes.  It  is  true  Lettuce  never  left  him  but  a 
few  moments  at  a  time,  for  he  was  dear  to  her  as  the  apple  of 
her  eye;  but  she  loved  freedom,  and  took  great  delight  in  poking 
about  among  old,  dry  leaves,  peering  into  hollow  trees,  and 
scraping  moss  from  the  ancient  bark.  Perhaps  she  had 
dreamed  of  finding  some  hidden  treasure,  or  was  seeking  a 
charm  against  the  witches ;  she  certainly  had  an  exploring  pro 
pensity,  which  endangered  in  one  instance  the  safety  of  her 
precious  young  charge. 

One  evening  Robert  was  returning  from  the  cabin  of  Tus 
carora  by  the  path  in  which  Lettuce  was  roaming.  He  was 
walking  slowly,  absorbed  in  meditation,  when  his  attention  was 
arrested  by  the  figure  of  a  man  stealing  along  through  the 
woods  directly  in  front  of  him.  He  evidently  did  not  perceive 
the  approach  of  Robert,  as  his  back  was  to  him,  and  Robert's 
slow  footsteps  on  the  sandy  path  roused  no  echo  to  alarm  the 
ear.  He  was  dressed  like  a  sailor,  with  a  red  woollen  shirt  and 
blue  trousers.  He  had,  however,  a  Spanish  sombrero  on  his 
head,  and  his  long  black  hair,  and  the  dark  edge  of  skin  visi 
ble  on  his  neck,  which  was  all  Robert  could  now  see,  indicated 
»ihat  he  belonged  to  the  Spanish  or  Indian  race.  Why  was 
this  man  skulking  along  so  stealthily,  and  looking  before  him 
with  such  an  intent  gaze,  as  his  bending  neck  and  advanced 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  125 

head  betokened  ?  He  might  be  a  hunter.  He  held  a  rifle  in 
his  left  hand,  but  these  woods  skirted  the  plantation,  and  the 
hunter  sought  in  more  unfrequented  shades  the  wild  trophies 
of  the  chase.  Whatever  was  his  object,  there  was  something 
dark  and  ruffian-like  in  his  appearance  that  steadied  the  gaze 
of  Robert.  Slowly,  silently  he  followed  his  steps,  till  a  glimpse 
of  little  Walton's  sky-blue  cloak  appeared,  just  beside  the  path 
before  them.  The  child  was  seated  on  the  ground,  in  the 
sweet  fearlessness  of  innocence,  and  looked  up  into  the  dark,  fero 
cious  face  coming  near  him  with  mute  astonishment.  Before  his 
.astonishment  had  time  to  ripen  into  terror,  or  to  manifest  itself 
as  such,  the  ruffian  seized  the  infant  in  his  arms,  and  leaping 
across  the  path,  plunged  into  the  woods.  Then  it  gave  vent 
to  the  most  piercing  shrieks,  which  the  wretch  stifled  with  his 
right  hand,  still  grasping  his  rifle  in  the  other,  with  his  left 
arm  round  the  child.  Lettuce  came  rushing  from  her  woody 
recess,  answering  shriek  for  shriek,  and  looking  round  her  in 
vacant  horror.  But  there  was  one,  with  steps  fleeter  than  hers, 
pursuing  the  child-robber  swift  as  an  avenging  angel.  Robert 
was  unarmed,  but  he  thought  not  of  that.  He  thought  only 
that  it  was  Linda's  child,  the  child  committed  to  his  protection 
by  a  confiding  father.  He  did  not  run,  he  flew ;  he  crushed 
the  branches  that  impeded  his  way;  but  the  ruffian  flew  also, 
and  was  at  least  a  hundred  yards  in  advance.  But  fast  as  he 
ran,  Robert  felt  that  he  was  gaining  on  him.  The  forked  light 
ning  is  hardly  swifter  than  his  steps.  All  at  once  the  ruffian 
seemed  endowed  with  superhuman  speed,  and  the  distance 
widened  between  them. 

"My   God!"    cried   Robert;    "he    escapes   me!     Linda'f* 
shild  is  lost." 

But,  even  as  he  spoke,  the  man's  foot  stumbled  against  a 
gnarled  root  covered  with  leaves,  and  the  rifle  dropped  from 
his  hand.  As  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  the  avenger  was  upon 
him,  his  shoulder  wrenched  with  an  iron  grasp,  and  the  child 
rent  from  his  desperate  grasj 
26 


126  ROBERT    GRAHAM  : 

The  rifle,  too — for  Robert  seemed  to  have  the  strength  of  a 
giant  in  his  single  arm.  The  moment  he  felt  the  soft  bosom  of 
the  child  pressed  against  his  own,  a  shiver  of  delight,  gratitude, 
transport,  ran  through  his  frame. 

"  Wretch  !  ruffian  !"  he  cried ;  "  how  dare  you  lay  hands 
on  this  infant  ?  What  urged  you  to  such  a  fiendish  deed  ?" 

The  man,  deprived  of  his  rifle,  cowered  before  the  indignant 
mien  of  Robert,  whose  eyes  rained  fire  from  their  flashing  orbs. 
Without  uttering  a  syllable,  he  turned  away,  and  ran  into  the 
woods  as  fast  as  his  feet  could  carry  him. 

Robert  drew  a  relieving  breath.  He  was  grateful  that  the 
rescue  had  been  accomplished  without  spilling  the  blood  of  the 
robber  or  his  own.  The  poor,  terrified  infant  appeared  to 
know  that  it  was  in  the  arms  of  a  friend,  for  it  clung  to  him 
closer  and  closer,  putting  its  arms  round  his  neck,  and  press 
ing  its  face  on  his  breast,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  hideous  aspect 
that  had  lately  scowled  above  it. 

Inexpressibly  touched  by  the  innocent  confidence  so  sweetly 
manifested,  Robert  turned  on  his  homeward  way,  refusing  to 
yield  up  his  charge  to  Lettuce,  who  was  now  crying  as  audibly 
for  joy  as  she  had  screamed  vociferously  from  terror.  He 
walked  leisurely,  still  panting  from  the  recent  chase,  when 
suddenly  the  report  of  a  pistol  was  heard  behind,  and  a  bullet 
passed  through  his  left  arm  near  the  shoulder,  grazing  against 
the  child's  cloak.  He  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  wound  till 
the  infant  fell  from  his  grasp.  Quick  as  thought,  he  caught 
it  with  his  right  arm,  still  retaining  the  rifle  as  a  weapon  of 
defence.  The  ruflian  must  have  had  a  pistol  in  his  bosom, 
and  returned  upon  the  footsteps  of  him  who  had  robbed  him 
of  his  prey.  Thinking  he  might  be  one  of  a  band  lurking  in 
the  woods,  Robert  hastened  on,  the  blood  flowing  from  his 
wounded  arm,  and  reddening  the  path  behind  him.  Though 
he  was  no  longer  subject  to  those  hemorrhages  which  had 
brought  him  to  the  threshold  of  the  grave,  he  had  not  the 
giant  strength  that  could  bear,  unmoved,  so  sudden  a  shock ; 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  127 

and,  exhausted  by  his  previous  efforts,  he  began  to  feel  dizzy 
and  faint.  He  was  now  near  the  garden-gate,  and  secure  from 
pursuit.  He  dropped  the  rifle,  or  rather  left  it  leaning  against 
the  wall, — consulting  in  every  thing  the  safety  of  the  child. 
It  might  go  off  in  falling  to  the  ground,  though  it  had  not 
done  so  in  the  ruffian's  hand.  He  was  sorry  to  stain  the  beau 
tiful  flowery  avenues  with  his  fast-dripping  blood,  and  he  was 
sorry  to  think  of  the  terror  Linda  would  feel  when  she  saw 
her  infant  stained  by  the  sanguinary  stream.  The  charming 
picture  he  had  drawn  of  placing  it  in  her  arms,  and  receiving 
his  reward  in  her  glance  of  grateful  affection,  vanished  in  a 
dim,  gray  cloud.  It  seemed  floating  before  his  eyes,  as  he  as 
cended  the  steps,  crossed  the  hall,  and  entered  the  room  where 
Linda  sat,  with  Nora  and  Julia,  unconscious  of  the  danger 
from  which  her  infant  had  been  rescued. 

He  paused  on  the  threshold,  unwilling  to  bring  his  bloody 
tracks  in  that  peaceful,  charming  retreat ;  but,  before  he  could 
speak  the  words  that  hovered  on  his  lips,  Linda  sprang  up, 
with  a  wild  cry,  and  rushed  toward  him. 

"  Oh,  Robert ! — oh,  my  child  !  Good  God — 'tis  covered 
with  blood !" 

"  'Tis  my  blood,  Linda/'  exclaimed  Robert,  unconsciously 
repeating  the  words  of  the  dying  Rolla,  when  he  gave  her 
rescued  child  to  Cora's  arms;  and,  staggering  forward,  he 
sank,  pale  and  exhausted,  at  Linda's  feet.  The  infant  smiled 
in  its  mother's  face,  and  she  knew  that  it  was  safe.  But 
Robert — looking  so  like  death,  lying  there  bathed  in  blood, 
that  still  kept  flowing  from  some  unseen  wound — what  had  be 
fallen  him  ?  Had  he  sacrificed  himself  to  save  her  child  ? 
She  heeded  not  the  screams  of  Nora,  who  repeatedly  ejaculated 
Julia's  name  in  terrified  accents;  she  scarcely  heeded  when 
some  one  took  the  infant  from  her;  she  knelt  over  the  bleed 
ing  Robert,  and,  putting  her  arms  wildly  round  him,  entreated 
him  to  tell  her  that  he  was  not  wounded  unto  death; — that 
her  child's  life  was  not  purchased  by  his  own. 


128  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"  Oh,  Robert,  dear  brother !"  she  cried,  "  speak,  and  tell 
me  wliat  this  means.'7 

Robert,  who  was  faint  from  loss  of  blood,  not  insensible, 
would  willingly  have  yielded  up  life  itself  for  these  demon 
strations  of  affection,  though  emanating  only  from  a  sister's 
love.  He  could  not  help  thinking  it  would  be  sweet  to  die 
thus,  and  end  the  bosom  strife  which  had  so  often  left  him 
weak,  if  not  vanquished;  but  he  knew  the  wound  was  not 
dangerous, — was  comparatively  slight, — and  he  hastened  to 
allay  her  fears. 

"  Bind  your  handkerchief  round  my  arm,  that  I  may  not 
efface  all  your  roses,"  said  he,  looking,  with  a  faint  smile,  at 
the  carpet  where  he  lay.  "  I  suffer  from  nothing  but  the  loss 
of  blood.  The  ball  passed  through  my  arm,  and  made  only  a 
flesh-wound." 

Linda  shuddered,  and,  taking  her  handkerchief,  bound  it 
round  his  arm ;  but  seeing  the  linen  reddening  as  she  swathed 
it,  she  unfolded  a  light  scarf  from  her  shoulders,  and  bound 
that  round  it  also.  Her  hands  trembled,  the  tears  dropped 
from  her  eyes,  her  colour  came  and  went,  and,  as  soon  as  she 
had  finished,  she  bowed  her  head  on  her  clasped  hands,  ex 
claiming — 

"  Oh,  Robert,  from  what  dreadful  doom  have  you  saved  my 
child?" 

"  It  is  all  over  now,"  he  cried,  raising  himself  from  the 
floor,  and,  bending  on  one  knee  beside  her,  he  supported  her 
with  his  unwounded  arm.  "  You  weep,  Linda;  but  I  know 
they  are  tears  of  joy  and  gratitude.  When  you  are  more 
composed,  I  will  relate  to  you  all  you  owe  to  the  guardian 
God  of  innocence.  But  look,  Linda, — merciful  heaven !  am 
I  the  cause  of  this?" 

As  he  raised  his  head  from  its  bending  position,  he  saw 
through  the  opened  doors  a  group  assembled  in  the  opposite 
room  round  a  sofa,  on  which  Julia  reclined  with  such  a  death- 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  129 

resembling  aspect,  it  is  not  strange  that  Kobert  sprung  to  bis 
feet,  forgetting  his  weakness  in  new  alarm. 

As  Julia  had  told  Nora,  she  had  a  constitutional  tendency 
to  faint  at  the  sight  of  blood.  Even  a  drop  of  blood  from 
her  own  finger  following  the  needle's  point  made  her  sick  and 
pale.  What  wonder,  {lien,  she  should  fall  in  a  death-like 
swoon  at  the  aspect  of  the  bleeding  Robert?  She  sank, 
inanimate  as  a  corpse,  into  Nora's  arms  the  moment  Robert 
fell  at  Linda's  feet;  and  Nora,  though  shrieking  with  terror, 
had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  carry  her  into  another  apart 
ment,  where  the  negro  women  soon  collected.  It  was  well  for 
Robert  that  the  current  of  feeling  was  thus  divided,  or  he 
might  have  been  deluged  with  the  cologne  which  Nora  dashed 
so  profusely  on  Julia's  head.  She  came  near  pouring  a 
bottle  of  hartshorn  in  her  face,  but  fortunately  Aunt  Judy 
caught  it  from  her  hand  in  time  to  prevent  the  catastrophe. 

Poor  Aunt  Judy !  she  hardly  knew  which  way  to  turn,  in 
the  ubiquity  of  her  sympathy.  On  one  side,  the  young  mas 
ter,  bleeding  on  the  floor;  on  the  other,  the  "  blessed  baby," 
looking  as  if  it  had  just  escaped  from  the  lion's  jaws,  all  spot 
ted  with  blood;  and  this  beautiful  young  creature,  lying  still 
and  white  as  a  corpse,  and  Miss  Nora  taking  on  like  a  dis 
tracted  person,  and  Lettuce,  standing  like  a  big  baby,  doing 
nothing  but  cry  and  snivel,  instead  of  trying  "  to  help  a  body 
in  their  diversity." 

"Praise  a  Lord!"  cried  Judy,  when  Robert  and  Linda 
entered  the  room,  and  pressed  toward  the  couch  where  Julia 
lay,  "  Praise  a  Lord !"  pushing  Lettuce  vigorously  aside,  and 
giving  somebody  else  a  momentum  backward.  tl  The  master's 
on  his  feet  agin — though  he  looks  as  white  as  the  dead — 
and  see,  the  young  lady  opens  her  eyes  as  he  comes  near,  just 
as  if  he  worked  a  miracle.  There,  honey,  lie  still,  and  keep 
your  brains  from  a  swimming." 

When  Julia  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  Robert,  with  ban 
daged  arm  and  Dallid  cheek,  standing  over  her,  she  looked 


1  30  ROBERT   GRAHAM  I 

at  first  amazed  and  terrified,  then  a  bright  ray  of  joy  and 
gratitude  shone,  as  through  a  mist,  and  lighted  up  her  face. 

(( I  thought  I  saw  you  bleeding  to  death/'  she  said,  closing 
her  eyes  again,  with  a  shiver  at  the  recollection. 

"  She's  cold,"  cried  Aunt  Judy,  shooting  out  of  the  room 
for  a  blanket;  "and  it's  no  wonder,  when  Miss  Nora  kept 
a-drownding  her  with  all  sorts  o'  sperrit.  If  I  could  only 
have  got  some  burnt  feathers  under  her  nose,  she'd  been  as 
well  as  ever  by  this  time." 

"  I  grieve  that  I  have  alarmed  you  so  much,  Julia,"  said 
Robert,  taking  her  hand,  which  was  still  deadly  cold ;  "I 
ought  not  to  have  rushed  in,  in  such  a  frightful  manner,  but 
I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  doing.  I  have  only  lost  a  little 
blood,  which  I  doubt  not  will  do  me  good.  I  am  quite  well 
now." 

'  But  are  you  not  wounded  ?"  she  asked,  the  warm  blood 
flowing  into  her  hand,  and  beginning  to  colour  her  white 
cheeks. 

"A  mere  trifle;  I  regret  it  only  as  it  has  been  the  cause  of 
alarm  to  others.  I  cannot  forgive  myself  for  the  mischief  I 
have  done." 

"  She  always  faints  at  the  sight  of  blood,"  said  Nora,  with 
the  true  instinct  of  womankind ;  "  she's  a  poor,  dear  little 
coward,  who  ought  to  be  put  up  in  cotton,  like  those  little 
French  essence  bottles,  that  a  mere  touch  will  break." 

"  I  am  good  for  nothing,"  said  Julia,  who  felt  in  every 
languid  vein  electric  life  returning ;  "  I  wish  I  did  not  give 
so  much  trouble  to  my  friends.  Indeed,  you  are  all  too  kind, 
too  good.  Do  not  stand  by  me  looking  so  pale,"  added  she, 
to  Robert,  gently  drawing  away  the  hand  which  was  only  too 
willing  to  linger  in  the  clasp  of  his.  "And  you,  dear  Linda, 
never  mind  my  wet  locks.  They  will  dry  of  themselves  ere 
long/' 

Julia  now  seemed  quite  restored.  Her  cheeks  had  a 
bright,  rose  spot,  and  her  eyes  the  sapphire's  blue.  She  sat 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  131 

up,  and  gathering  her  saturated  tresses,  the  odorous  waters 
with  which  they  had  been  bathed  perfumed  the  apartment 
with  fresh  fragrance. 

"  You  should  be  willing  to  faint  once  in  a  while/'  said 
Linda,  looking  at  her  with  painful  interest,  "  since  you  wake 
to  such  brilliant  life.  Do  you  feel  as  well  as  you  look?" 

"  Oh,  yes/'  said  she,  with  animation.  "  I  will  go  into  my 
room  now,  that  Henry,  when  he  comes  in;  may  not  be  alarmed 
at  my  dishevelled  appearance." 

She  rose,  and  attempted  to  walk,  but  faltered,  and  sat  down 
again. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  keep  still  a  little  longer,"  said  she, 
and  the  colour  went  out  in  her  cheek,  like  a  flame  extinguished 
by  the  wind. 

"You  must  not  stay  here,  wet  and  chill,"  cried  Linda, 
watching  her  fluctuating  colour  and  quick-drawn  breath  with 
increasing  anxiety;  "you  must  go  to  your  room,  and  keep  per 
fectly  quiet  the  remainder  of  the  evening." 

"  Let  me  assist  you,"  said  Robert;  "I  have  one  sound  arm, 
capable  of  supporting  a  far  heavier  burden." 

And  putting  it  round  her  waist,  he  raised  her  from  the 
sofa,  and  carried  her  as  easily  and  tenderly  as  he  had  the  little 
Walton,  to  the  door  of  her  apartment. 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  she,  smiling  and  blushing; 
"  Henry  could  not  be  kinder." 

"  Don't  thank  him,"  cried  Nora,  with  a  look  full  of  grati 
tude;  "I  am  sure  you  are  under  no  obligations  to  him.  After 
frightening  you  out  of  your  senses,  and  all  the  rest  of  us,  too, 
the  least  he  can  do  is  this.  You  little,  downy  feather,  you 
could  ride  on  a  butterfly's  wing." 

"I  cannot  help  thanking  him,"  said  Julia,  after  listening 
till  she  could  no  longer  hear  his  footsteps  in  the  hall,  "  to  be 
so  thoughtful  of  me,  when  he  must  be  suffering  himself. 
Something  dreadful  must  have  happened.  I  could  not  ask 
him  now.  And  tell  me,  Nora,  was  the  sweet  baby  hurt  ?" 


132  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"Not  a  bit.  Did  you  not  hear  him  say,  as  lie  fell,  <  'Tis 
my  blood,  Linda  ?'  Oh  !  he  did  look  like  a  dying  man  then. 
I  would  have  fainted  myself  if  you  hadn't  got  the  start  of 
me.  But  mercy  on  me !  I  hadn't  time  to  think  of  it,  so  much 
was  happening  at  one  moment ;  Linda  rushing  to  Robert  and 
snatching  her  baby  with  such  a  thrilling  cry,  Aunt  Judy 
tearing  in  and  snatching  the  baby  from  her,  then  Linda  weep 
ing  on  Robert's  neck,  and  you  falling  like  a  piece  of  lead  on  my 
bosom.  Was  it  not  a  scene?  I  wish  Henry  had  been  here. 
I  wonder  what  he  would  have  done.  Perhaps  lie  would  have 
fainted  at  my  feet.  Do  tell  me,  Julia,  how  you  do  contrive  to 
faint.  It  looks  so  interesting,  and  creates  such  a  sensation." 

"  Do  you  think  it  affectation  in  me,  Nora  ?"  asked  Julia,  in 
a  wounded  tone.  "  If  you  knew  the  deadly,  sickening  feeling 
that  precedes  and  follows  this  insensibility,  you  could  not  think 
it  possible  to  affect  it." 

"I  do  not  think  so.  No,  indeed.  There  was  reality  enough 
in  your  clay-cold  face,  and  white  marble  lips,  to  make  me  even 
now  peer  into  the  blue  depths  of  your  eyes,  to  see  if  the  balls 
are  in  motion.  But  seriously,  my  darling  Julia,  I  do  not  like 
to  be  so  rude  in  health,  and  wear  this  unvarying  apple  bloom. 
I  never  look  in  the  glass,  without  thinking  my  name  should 
be  Bouncing  Bet,  or  Kitty  Clover." 

While  Nora's  thoughts,  dancing  on  the  surface  of  her  mind, 
skipped  forth  in  words,  she  was  acting  as  Julia's  tire-woman ;., 
changing  her  moistened  garments,  and  drying  with  the  brush 
the  dripping  gold  of  her  hair.  Then  she  made  her  lie  down 
on  the  bed,  while  she  carelessly  arranged  her  own  wild,  gipsy 
locks. 

"  Be  my  looking-glass,  sweet  Julia,"  said  she,  twisting  her 
fingers  here  and  there  in  the  dark  labyrinth ;  "  tell  me  if  that 
will  do.  Is  that  pretty  ?"  casting  her  eye  up  toward  a  curl 
that  threw  its  shadow  on  her  brow. 

" Nothing  could  be  more  graceful,"  replied  Julia.  "What 
is  the  reason  that,  when  I  Jook  at  you,  I  think  you  must  have 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  133 

drest  yourself  by  a  mountain  stream,  making  a  mirror  of  its 


wave  ?" 


"  Do  you  indeed  think  so,  charming  creature  ?  I  shall  like 
myself  better  for  inspiring  so  sweet  an  idea.  I  will  look  at 
myself/' 

As  she  jumped  up  and  went  to  the  glass,  her  eye  caught  a 
glimpse  of  figures  walking  in  the  avenue  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  she  stopped  at  the  window  which  she  was  passing. 

"  There  is  Linda/'  she  cried,  "  walking  with  Robert,  and, 
would  you  believe  it  ?  he  looks  almost  as  well  as  ever.  He  is 
trying  to  lead  her  in  a  different  direction  that  she  may  not  see 
his  bloody  tracks.  The  baby  hurt !  no,  indeed.  He  is  smiling 
in  her  arms,  in  a  rose-coloured  dress,  looking  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  Robert  is  telling  her  all  about  it,  I  know,  and  I 
wish  I  was  there  to  hear  it.  How  earnest  and  serious  he 
looks,  and  with  what  breathless  interest  she  listens  !  Dear 
me  !  I  wonder  what  makes  her  take  that  baby  herself  when 
she  has  so  many  negroes  to  wait  on  her.  She  is  too  lovely, 
too  ethereal  for  such  common  offices.  There,  I  am  glad  Let 
tuce  has  taken  it.  She  and  Robert  look  so  much  more 
romantic  without  it." 

"  Nora,  you  have  a  heart.  You  know  you  have.  Why  do 
you  take  such  pains  to  hide  it  ?" 

"  What  have  I  said  that  implied  I  had  no  heart  ?" 

"  You  spoke  as  if  you  did  not  love  children, — and  Walton  is 
such  a  beautiful  child,  it  seems  as  if  he  could  belong  to  no 
other  than  Linda.  Then,  she  has  just  feared  for  him,  and 
fear  for  the  safety  of  those  we  love  always  makes  us  more 
oving." 

"  Do  you  not  think  Linda  lovely  ?"  asked  Nora,  still  watch 
ing  her  and  Robert  from  the  window  where  she  stood. 

"  Surpassingly  so,"  answered  Julia,  and  an  involuntarily 
sigh  escaped  her  lips.  a  There  is  about  her  a  charm,  a  fasci 
nation,  which  I  constantly  feel,  but  cannot  define." 

" Do  you  know,  Julia,"  said  the  thoughtless  Nora,  "that 


13 1  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

if  I  were  Roland  Lee,  I  would  not  like  to  leave  my  wife  with 
such  a  splendid  creature  as  Robert,  knowing  how  passionately 
he  once  loved  her ,  and,"  lowering  her  voice,  while  she  tripped 
up  to  the  bed-side,  "  I  do  believe  he  loves  her  yet,  whether 
he  knows  it  himself  or  not." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  Julia,  and  the  tone  in  which  she 
uttered  the  simple  interrogation  expressed  as  much  anguish  as 
if  a  knife  had  entered  her  heart.  "  Do  you  think  so?" 

"  Julia,"  said  Nora,  fixing  on  her  her  dark  bright  eyes, 
"you  have  a  heart,  if  I  have  not."  Then,  with  an  instanta 
neous  change  of  voice  and  countenance,  she  exclaimed, — 

"  I  would  sooner  rend  from  its  roots  this  wayward  tongue, 
than  willingly  give  you  a  moment's  pain.  Think  so  !  No — I 
don't  think  so.  It  is  only  my  insufferable  nonsense." 

"Do  not  recall  your  words,  because  you  believe  you  have 
wounded  me,"  said  Julia,  pressing  her  hand  on  her  fluttering 
heart, — that  heart  whose  beatings  were  fearfully  quickened  by 
every  sudden  emotion.  "  I  cannot  help  being  shocked  at  the 
thought  of  one,  who  seems  so  pure  and  good,  loving  the  wed 
ded  wife  of  another.  Surely  you  do  greatly  wrong  him." 

"I  dare  say  I  do.  I  know  I  do,"  answered  Nora,  quickly; 
"  that  is,  I  dare  say  I  am  mistaken.  But  I  do  not  see  how 
this  love,  supposing  it  exists,  which  is  all  nonsense,  detracts 
from  his  goodness  or  piety." 

"  Oh,  Nora,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  Is  it  not  breaking  the 
canons  of  the  living  God  ?  and  he  too  a  Christian  minister,  a 
heaven-devoted  missionary  1" 

"It  is  not  the  feeling  passion,  but  indulging  it,  that  consti 
tutes  a  sin,"  said  Nora,  with  the  gravity  of  a  sage.  "  Sup 
posing  a  ruffian  came  to  your  door  and  knocked,  and  clamoured 
for  admission,  you  could  not  help  it,  could  you?  But  you 
could  help  opening  the  door,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  and 
giving  him  the  welcome  of  a  friend.  Besides,"  she  added, 
forgetting  in  her  earnestness  the  caution  she  had  just  imposed 
on  herself,  "  how  can  we  expect  that  the  love  which  has  been 


A    SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  135 

the  growth,  of  years,  and  entwined  with  the  very  life-chords 
of  one's  being,  to  pass  away  like  the  ephemera  of  a  summer's 
day  ?  That  love  itself  is  holy  as  the  religion  that  sanctifies 
and  controls  it." 

This  was  one  of  those  sunbursts  of  feeling  which  at  rare 
intervals  flashed  out  on  the  light  foam  of  Nora's  mind.  Jul:a 
felt  the  truth  of  what  she  uttered,  the  more  deeply  because  it 
came  from  her  usually  gay  and  unreflecting  lips;  and  the 
morning  dream  of  hope  vanished.  She  wanted  to  be  alone. 
Kind  as  Nora  was,  there  was  something  in  her  exultant  vital 
ity  and  independence  of  character  that  contrasted  too  pain 
fully  with  her  own  weakness. 

" Leave  me,  dear  Nora/'  she  said;  "all  I  need  is  rest.  Go 
and  watch  for  Henry's  coming,  that  he  may  not  be  alarmed  as 
we  have  been.  You  will  learn,  too,  all  that  has  happened, 
and  tell  it  again  to  me." 

Nora  was  indeed  full  of  curiosity  which  she  was  anxious  to 
gratify,  and  believing  Julia  ought  to  rest,  she  hastened  to  obey 
her  injunctions.  She  felt  uncomfortable,  too,  for  what  she  had 
said  of  Robert,  and  pained  for  its  effect  on  Julia.  She  had 
really  believed,  when  at  Pine  Grove,  that  Robert  was  transfer 
ring  his  affections  to  Julia,  and,  as  usual,  uttered  what  she 
believed ;  but  she  dreamed  not  of  the  mighty  hold  he  had  taken 
on  her  childlike  and  susceptible  heart. 

When  Julia  found  herself  alone,  the  strained  chord  of  her 
sensibility  relaxed,  and  drawing  the  sheet  over  her  face  she 
wept,  as  the  young  child  weeps,  without  any  effort  at  self-con 
trol.  She  did  not  ask  herself  why  she  wept,  or  why  she  felt 
all  at  once  so  desolate  and  homesick,  when  she  had  been  so 
happy  since  the  first  night  of  her  arrival.  She  wished 
she  had  never  left  her  Northern  home.  She  would  have 
given  worlds  to  lay  her  head  on  her  mother's  bosom,  to  feel 
the  pressure  of  her  sister's  gentle  hand.  These  deadly  faint 
ing-fits  always  left  her  so  weak,  so  palpitating  and  nervous, 
their  remembrance  was  like  the  shadow  of  death. 


136  ROBERT    GRAHAM  I 

There  was  a  light  tap  at  the  door, — and — 

"  May  I  come  in,  sister?"  sounded  so  like  a  voice  from 
home,  that  when  Henry  entered  and  came  up  to  the  bedside, 
she  could  not  help  throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
bursting  into  a  fresh  flood  of  tears. 

"  Why  Julia,  my  darling,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  lie  cried, 
alarmed  at  her  passionate  sobs.  ,  "  Why  do  you  weep  so  bit 
terly  ?  What  can  have  occurred  ?  Speak,  Julia, — I  know 
not  what  to  think  !" 

"  Nothing — nothing,"  she  cried,  hiding  her  face  on  his  bo 
som,  and  ashamed  of  her  emotion,  so  inexplicable  even  to  her 
self;  "  I  feel  so  weak,  so  gone,  as  it  were, — I  cannot  help  it." 

"  Poor  child — poor  child,"  said  he,  tenderly,  smoothing 
back  her  disordered  hair  and  kissing  her  throbbing  temples ; 
"  I  thought  you  were  growing  stronger.  They  told  me  you 
had  fainted.  Is  that  all,  sweet  sister  ?  I  am  unspeakably 
relieved.  This  nervous  depression  will  soon  pass  away.  No 
thing  does  one  so  much  good  as  a  hearty  fit  of  crying  once  in 
a  while.  It  carries  off  the  cobwebs  and  dust  from  the  brain. 
Come,  cheer  up,  Julia — I  have  brought  you  letters  from 
home, — all  overflowing  with  the  elixir  of  affection.  Keep  still, 
and  I  will  read  them  aloud." 

Julia  listened  to  the  sweet  breathings  of  family  love,  and 
her  spirit  was  lulled  by  their  harmony. 

"  Oh,  Henry,"  she  cried,  pressing  each  signature  to  her 
quivering  lips,  "  let  us  return.  Why  should  we  linger  in  the 
land  of  strangers,  when  there  are  those  afar  who  love  us  dearer 
than  all  ?" 

"Not  at  this  season,  Julia.  Impossible!  You  would  be 
in  far  greater  danger  than  ever.  The  Northern  winds  would 
chill  you  to  the  heart's  core  after  inhaling  this  soft,  delicious 
atmosphere.  Are  you  not  happy  here,  my  sister  ?  Surely 
every  one  is  kind." 

"  Oh,  yes, — I  know  they  are." 

"Then  is  it  not  ungrateful  to  wish  to  leave  them  so  soon. 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  137 

when  you  must  be  gaining  health,  whether  you  know  it  or  not. 
I  felt,  myself,  some  misgivings  about  coming  to  an  entire  stran 
ger's  ;  but  we  have  been  so  cordially  welcomed,  so  hospitably 
entertained,  so  urgently  pressed  to  remain  longer,  that  I  do 
not  see  how  we  can  make  a  graceful  congee  quite  so  soon, 
especially  as  Captain  Lee  is  gone,  and  his  wife  relies  on  us,  in 
some  measure,  to  fill  the  household  void  he  has  made." 

"I  do  not  think  I  am  getting  better,  Henry/7  said  Julia, 
taking  his  hand  and  laying  it  on  her  heart;  "feel  this  wild 
beating.  Such  incessant  flutterings  must  break  the  frail  bars 
of  the  cage  ere  long.  I  did  not  feel  so  at  home." 

"You  are  nervous,  dear  sister,"  he  answered,  suppressing 
his  rising  solicitude ;  "  it  is  owing  to  the  fright  you  have  re 
ceived.  You  must  take  an  anodyne.  It  is  all  you  need.  Ro 
bert  told  me  I  had  better  bring  you  one." 

The  sudden  change  of  her  countenance  as  he  uttered  the 
name  of  Robert,  the  tremulous  agitation,  the  mantling  glow, 
did  not  escape  his  observation,  and  as  he  perused  her  face  his 
brow  darkened.  Her  passionate  tears,  her  desire  to  return 
immediately,  when  she  had  seemed  so  charmed  with  the  South, 
so  enchanted  with  her  new  friends,  must  have  some  mysterious 
source.  Was  he  trifling  with  her  guilelessness  and  simplicity, 
or  had  her  young  affection  wandered  like  stray  lambs  to  a 
barren  plain  ?  Were  the  snowy  wings  of  her  heart  indeed 
fluttering  for  the  pure  air  of  heaven  ?  Was  he  doomed  to  see 
all  that  he  loved  fade  away  and  die  ?  As  these  questions  arose 
in  his  mind,  the  severity  of  deep,  anxious  thought  hardened 
his  countenance. 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me,  brother  ?"  asked  Julia,  timidly. 

"Angry  with  you! — Good  heavens!  No.  Why  do  you 
dream  of  such  a  thing  ?" 

"  It  seemed  as  if  a  shadow  came  between  me  and  the  sun 
shine.  You  looked  cold,  and  /felt  so." 

"  You  should  be  called  Mimosa,  Julia,  you  are  so  sensitive. 
What  a  pity  you  could  not  borrow  some  of  Nora's  superfluous 


138  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

carelessness.  She  can  feel,  however,  can  she  not,  on  extraor^ 
dinary  occasions  ?" 

"I  think  she  is  capable  of  great  feeling/'  answered  Julia; 
"  but  she  has  never  known  sorrow  yet." 

"  She  is  motherless." 

"Yes, — but  her  mother  died  when  she  was  too  young  to  feel 
he  loss." 

"  Sorrow  and  love  are  the  two  great  refiners  of  the  human 
heart.  Nora,  then,  is  a  stranger  to  both?" 

The  assertion  was  uttered  in  an  interrogative  tone. 

"I  believe  she  is,"  answered  Julia.  "I  did  think — that 
is — I  once  thought" — she  paused  in  evident  embarrassment, 
then  continued, — "I  imagined,  when  I  first  knew  her,  that 
she  might  love  Robert  Graham,  but  I  was  probably  mistaken." 

"  "Why  did  you  suppose  so  ?"  asked  Henry,  and  his  face 
glowed  with  excitement. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Julia,  artlessly,  "  only  it  seemed  so 
r  itural  that  she  should ;  and  she  always  spoke  of  him  with  80 
much  admiration." 

"  Open  praise  does  not  always  betray  secret  love,"  answered 
Henry,  rising.  "  She  is  an  enigma  that  would  puzzle  a  more 
subtle  brain  than  yours." 

"  She  is  all  that  is  tender  and  affectionate  to  me,"  said  Julia, 
fearful  that  she  had  injured  Nora  in  Henry's  estimation,  by 
the  suggestion  she  had  made;  "  and  lightly  as  she  generally 
talks,  she  sometimes  expresses  sentiments  of  the  most  exalted 
kind.  I  know  not  why  you  call  her  an  enigma.  She  is  in 
genuous  even  to  a  fault." 

"  She  is  a  living  kaleidoscope,"  replied  Henry,  his  counte 
nance  lighting  up  with  pleasure  at  Julia's  earnest  vindication 
of  her  friend.  "  She  never  exhibits  twice  the  same  figure  or 
colouring  of  mind.  She  is  an  Aurora  Borealis,  sparkling  in  a 
clear  electric  atmosphere.  She  is  a  civilized  gipsy,  an  em 
bodied  Allegro.  I  cannot  think  of  any  more  similitudes  just 
now,  so  I  will  go  and  send  you  the  anodyne,  which  will  attract 


A   SEQUEL   TO  LINDA.  139 

the  soft  dews  of  sleep  to  your  drooping  lids,  and  sooth  the 
fluttcrer  in  your  bosom  to  sweet  repose." 

"  Kind  and  gentle  brother !"  said  Julia,  as  he  closed  the 
door  with  a  cautious  hand,  "  how  can  I  feel  desolate,  folded 
in  the  cherishing  warmth  of  thy  fraternal  love  ?  And  Robert, 
oo !  he  calls  me  his  adopted  sister — his  soul's  friend.  For- 
g  ve  me,  thou  divine  Searcher  of  hearts,  compassionate  remem 
berer  of  the  dust  thou  hast  animated,"  she  murmured,  raising 
her  submissive  eyes  to  heaven,  "if  I  have  yearned  for  a 
dearer  title.  Let  this  short,  fleeting  dream  of  life  be  filled 
with  holier  thoughts,  diviner  aspirations.  Let  me  not  indulge 
in  vain  cravings  for  earthly  love,  when  the  arms  of  a  heavenly 
Bridegroom  may  soon  enfold  me.  Like  the  daughter  of  Jeph- 
thah,  I  will  pass  to  the  mount  of  sacrifice,  adorned  with  the 
garlands  of  youth,  and  my  companions  will  weep  over  my  fate. 
But  the  early-called  are  God's  beloved.  He  commanded  the 
sons  of  Judah  to  lay  unblemished  lambs  upon  his  altar ;  and 
fresh  and  unleavened  was  the  bread  of  consecration." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

JULTA  slept  under  the  influence  of  a  gentle  opiate.  Nora 
sat  at  the  piano,  now  playing  a  gay  quickstep  or  airy  waltz, 
and  now  talking  with  Henry,  who  stood  beside  the  music- 
stool,  while  she  passed  the  fingers  of  her  right  hand  lightly 
over  the  keys. 

Linda  was  seated  in  the  opposite  room  to  the  one  in  which 
she  first  greeted  her  guests.  Robert  reclined  on  a  sofa  near 
her,  for  he  felt  languid  from  the  recent  effusion  of  blood. 
Aunt  Judy  had  dressed  his  wound  in  a  scientific  manner;  and, 
with  his  arm  suspended  in  a  sling,  he  looked,  as  his  dark 
leech  observed,  "  like  the  hero  of  a  militia." 

Linda  sat — her  cheek  leaning  on  her  hand — in  a  pensive, 


140  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

thoughtful  mood.  The  danger  from  which  her  child  had  es 
caped  made  her  tremble  for  that  which  might  still  be  impend 
ing  over  him.  What  secret,  unknown  enemy  was  lurking 
near,  seeking  to  pierce  her  or  Roland  through  the  bosom  of 
their  infant  ?  What  motive  could  prompt  so  strange  an  out 
rage  ?  Who  was  the  instigator  or  perpetrator  of  the  cruel 
deed  ?  She  would  be  henceforth  subject  to  thick-coming  ap 
prehensions.  Every  feeling  of  security  was  lost.  She  would 
never  more  suffer  him  to  go  beyond  the  limits  of  the  garden, 
lest  the  human  wolf  should  be  still  prowling  in  ambush,  to 
rob  her  of  her  lamb.  Again  and  again  she  asked  Robert  to 
describe  the  appearance,  the  features  of  the  ruffian.  She 
could  not  identify  them  with  any  one  she  had  ever  seen. 
Robert  endeavoured  to  allay  her  fears  of  having  a  secret 
enemy,  by  telling  her  that  the  man  was  probably  a  vagabond, 
who,  attracted  by  the  richness  of  the  child's  dress,  resolved  to 
steal  it,  that  he  might  profit  by  the  reward  which  would  be 
offered  for  its  restoration. 

"  Oh,  what  do  I  not  owe  you,  Robert !"  said  Linda,  her 
eyes  filling  with  grateful  tears.  "  My  brother,  my  friend, 
guardian  of  my  child !  how  will  Roland  bless  you,  on  his  re 
turn,  for  the  salvation  of  his  soul's  treasure — for  mine  too, 
Robert;  for,  had  you  not  rescued  Walton,  my  reason  would 
have  yielded  to  a  mother's  agony.  Even  now,  I  shudder  at 
the  wretchedness  that  would  have  been  ours  had  you  not  in 
terposed  as  a  guardian  angel,  to  shield  our  household  joys 
from  ruin." 

UA  more  generous  service  would  be  repaid  with  far  less 
gratitude,  Linda/'  replied  Robert.  "  I  bless  God  that,  after 
having  imbittered  so  many  years  of  your  young  life,  I  have 
been  able,  if  not  to  add  to  your  happiness,  to  save  one  of  its 
sources  from  danger.  Were  it  not  impious,  I  would  repine 
that  the  wound  were  not  deeper,  that  the  blood  had  not  flowed 
in  a  more  exhausting  stream." 

*''  Speak  not  of  the  past,  dear  Robert,"  said  Linda,  inex- 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  141 

pressibly  touched  by  the  profound  melancholy  of  his  tone. 
"I  remember  nothing  but  a  love  far,  far  beyond  my  deserts, 
most  nobly  renounced,  and  converted  into  the  purest  friend 
ship  and  tenderest  esteem.  Never  reproach  yourself  unless 
you  would  wound  me;  and  do  not,  I  pray  you,  Robert,  speak 
so  wearily  of  life, — you,  with  so  much  to  endear  it  to  your 
possession  :  such  splendid  endowments,  such  capacities  for 
happiness,  such  means  to  be  a  blessing  to  others, — and  re 
ligion,  like  a  crown  of  glory,  resting  above  all.  Surely  life 
should  be  to  you  a  source  of  the  purest  gratitude,  instead  of 
weariness  and  discontent.  There  are  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  the  sons  of  suffering,  of  oppression  and  want, 
who  might  envy  Robert  Graham  the  munificent  gifts  of 
nature  and  of  fortune." 

"I  am  wrong,  Linda — I  feel  that  I  am,"  said  Robert,  rising 
and  walking  backward  and  forward  the  whole  length  of  the 
room,  as  he  was  wont  to  do  in  moments  of  strong  excitement. 
"  What  am  I,  that  I  should  sigh  for  the  wine  of  Cana,  when 
my  Saviour  drank  the  wormwood  and  the  gall  ?  that  I  should 
pine  after  the  home  of  love  and  joy,  when  He  had  not  where 
to  lay  his  head  ?  Oh;  Linda,  it  is  not  well  for  me  to  be  here, 
when  the  distant  fields  of  my  Master  are  wearing  the  harvest- 
gold.  At  the  post  of  duty  my  loins  are  girded  with  strength, 
and  the  Spirit  of  God  breathes  in  burning  words  through  these 
now  murmuring  lips.  The  Christian  must  not  slumber  in 
bowers  of  ease.  Temptation  was  hidden  in  the  roses  of  Para 
dise.  It  climbs  not  the  mountain  heights  of  toil." 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  brother,"    said  Linda,  in  accents  of 
sweet  persuasion;  and  rising  also,  she  linked  her  arm  in  his 
as  if  what  she  had  to  utter  must  come  as  near  his  heart  as 
possible.     "  You  have  devoted  three  of  the  brightest  years  of 
your  life  to  the  holiest  service  in  which  man  ever  engaged 
When  scarcely  twenty  years  of  age — only  think  how  young— 
you  took  the  cross  upon  your  shoulder  and  the  pilgrim's  staff 
in  your  hand — leaving  all,  sacrificing  all,  in  imitation  of  TOW 
27 


142  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

divine  Master.  You  have  shown  your  zeal  and  devotion. 
You  have  condensed  the  labours  of  a  long  life  in  a  few  short 
years.  You  could  not  bear  such  continual  exertion.  Health 
and  life  itself  would  yield  ere  long.  You  must  not  think  of 
returning.  Heaven  has  marked  out  a  path  for  you  in  your 
own  country  and  in  the  midst  of  your  friends,  in  which  you 
can  confer  as  holy  blessings,  and  offer  up  as  acceptable  sacrifice 
to  God,  as  ever  ascended  from  a  Christian  altar  in  a  pagan 
land." 

"  Speak,  Linda ;  and  tell  me  whence  and  where  this  path 
leads." 

"  I  will ;  but  do  you  not  think,  Robert,  that  our  heavenly 
Father,  who  set  the  solitary  in  families,  blesses  the  domestic 
altar  as  well  as  the  dedicated  fane  ?  If  you  were  convinced 
that  there  was  one  pure,  innocent  heart  clinging  unconsciously 
to  you  for  happiness,  a  heart  enshrined  in  so  frail  a  casket 
that  a  sudden  wrench  might  shiver  and  destroy  it — such  as  an 
entire  separation  from  you — would  you  not  think  that  heart  a 
sacred  deposit  placed  in  your  keeping,  which  it  was  your  duty 
to  watch  over  and  cherish  with  lifelong  care  ?  You  under 
stand  me,  Robert ;  I  know  you  do." 

The  colour  mounted  high  in  Robert's  pallid  cheek,  as 
Linda  fixed  upon  him  her  entreating  eyes.  He  did  not  wish 
to  understand ;  he  could  not  deceive  her. 

"  You  mistake  the  expression  of  sisterly  affection  for  a 
warmer  feeling,  Linda.  I  know  to  whom  you  allude;  but, 
believe  me,  there  is  no  bond  between  us,  save  that  of  disin 
terested  friendship  and  Christian  sympathy.  She  has  accepted 
le  as  her  adopted  brother,  and  I  love  her  as  such,  and 
tithing  more." 

"  Nothing  more,  Robert  ?  How  can  you  be  insensible  to 
BO  much  sweetness  and  sensibility  ?  She  loves  you,  Robert, 
as  no  sister  ever  loved  a  brother.  A  sister  weeps  at  a  brother's 
danger,  but  the  pulsations  of  her  heart  do  not  stop  as  hers 
did  this  evening  at  the  first  glance  of  your  bleeding  wound. 


A    SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  143 

The  slightest  word  you  address  to  her  brings  the  warm  tide  to 
her  snowy  cheek,  and  the  love-light  to  her  soft,  blue  eye. 
Have  you  not  seen — have  you  not  felt  this  ?  I  would  not 
say  this,  fearing  to  infringe  on  the  maiden  delicacy  of  her 
feelings,  but  your  apparent  insensibility  and  her  fragile  health 
urged  me  to  do  it.  I  believe  it  is  not  only  in  your  power  to 
make  her  supremely  happy,  but  to  snatch  her,  by  timely  in 
terposition,  from  a  premature  grave/' 

"  Surely,  Linda,  you  cannot  mean  what  you  say.  How 
can  my  feeble  hand  avert  the  arrow  of  the  Almighty,  if  di 
rected  to  a  human  heart  ?  Would  you  place  me  in  the  stead 
of  Omnipotence,  and  make  me  answerable  for  its  mysterious 
decrees  ?" 

"  No ;  but  I  would  arouse  you  to  a  conviction  of  the  power 
you  really  do  possess  }  and  urge  you  to  use  it,  not  as  a  despot, 
who  recks  not  of  the  hearts  that  are  crushed  by  his  sceptre, 
but  as  the  benefactor,  who  lives  but  to  bless  and  to  save.  Oh, 
Robert,  I  thought  I  could  be  so  eloquent  on  this  subject  that 
words  would  come  at  my  bidding,  of  such  pui'j,  persuasive 
eloquence,  you  could  not  help  but  listen  and  b&  convinced. 
But  I  am  weak,  and  a  very  bankrupt  in  spee'.'li.  Yet  hear 
me,  my  brother,  for  the  pure  cause  I  plead ;  hoar  me  by  the 
fraternal  love  you  bear  me,  and  which  I  so  dearly  prize  ]  by 
the  priceless  worth  of  woman's  spotless  truth,  and  by  the 
heaven  of  domestic  happiness  that  may  be  yours ;  doom  not 
this  sweet  young  creature  to  the  misery  of  unrequited  affec 
tion.  Nay,  I  know  what  I  am  saying ;  there  is  no  exaggera 
tion  or  romance  in  it.  Her  brother  fears  lest  consurnptun 
mark  her  for  its  prey ;  but  the  malady  is  in  her  heart,  physi 
cal  malady,  I  mean.  The  sudden  brilliant  colour  that  flashes 
in  her  face,  the  quick,  panting  breath,  the  sudden  tremor  of 
her  whole  frame — these  symptoms  show  that  the  citadel  of  life 
is  attacked.  How  fatal  is  the  effect  of  disappoint  .v.ent  or  sor 
row  when  there  is  such  a  frail  security  against  1 .  ;ir  wastiuy 
power  \" 


144  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

All  the  time  Linda  was  thus  earnestly,  eloquently  plead 
ing,  her  arm  was  linked  in  Robert's,  her  face  was  upturned  to 
his,  beaming  with  enthusiasm  and  softened  by  sensibility. 
Robert  was  moved,  agitated,  startled.  He  did  not  like  to  be 
lieve  the  truths  she  uttered ;  yet,  even  as  she  spoke,  circum 
stances,  unheeded  before,  rose  to  his  remembrance  and  veri 
fied  her  words.  He  would  sooner  die  than  suffer  Linda  to 
suppose  that  he  cherished  one  feeling  for  herself  she  would 
not  sanction  as  the  wife  of  Roland.  He  could  not  tell  her 
that  where  one  image  was,  another  could  not  dwell ;  neither 
could  he  be  so  untrue  to  himself,  so  false  to  Julia,  as  to  make 
professions  which  he  did  not  feel. 

"  I  am  not  insensible,"  he  answered,  in  a  troubled  voice, 
"to  the  loveliness  and  excellence  of  your  friend;  but  if  it 
were  true  that  I  have  excited  so  deep  an  interest  in  a  guileless 
heart,  would  it  not  be  an  insult  to  its  purity  and  truth  to  offer 
her  the  mere  dregs  of  mine  ? — to  take  the  wine  and  give  the 
lees  of  affection  ?  Instead  of  securing  her  happiness,  it  would 
entail  upon  her  unutterable  misery." 

"No,  Robert;  there  are  no  lees  in  such  a  heart  as  yours. 
The  wine  and  the  oil  are  supplied  by  the  same  hand  that  filled 
the  cruse  of  the  widow  and  the  net  of  the  fisherman.  They 
cannot,  will  not  fail.  She  will  not  prize  your  love  less  be 
cause  she  may  not  be  the  object  of  its  first  youthful  ardours. 
Few,  few  indeed,  are  so  happy  as  to  reign  the  unrivalled  mis 
tress  of  the  heart;  and  a  second  love  is  ofttimes  stronger  and 
deeper  than  the  first.  Circumstances  have  such  a  controlling 
influence  on  our  destiny,  that  we  scarcely  know  what  we  would 
be  or  do  if  left  to  ourselves.  But  that  is  not  what  I  intended 
to  say.  Let  Julia  herself  decide.  Offer  to  her  acceptance 
your  esteem,  tenderness,  regard — all  that  she  is  worthy  to 
inspire  and  you  to  feel — all  that  you  can  and  must  feel,  if  you 
yield  yourself  unreservedly  to  her  influence — and  see  if  she 
reject  the  offering." 

Robert   gently  drew   away   his   arm   from    Linda's,    and, 


A   SEQUEL  TO   LINDA.  145 

sinking  on  the  sofa,  pressed  his  hand  to  his  forehead.  He 
looked  excessively  pale,  and  Linda,  reproaching  herself 
for  forgetting  the  languor  he  must  feel  in  the  cause  she  had 
espoused,  brought  him  a  glass  of  water,  and  entreated  him  to 
forgive  her  if  she  had  transgressed  the  limits  of  a  sister's 
solicitude. 

"  I  know  I  have  no  right  to  urge  you,"  she  said,  tremu 
lously,  quite  disheartened  at  the  ill  success  of  her  self-ap 
pointed  mission,  "  but  I  have  been  so  sanguine,  so  hopeful ; 
I  saw  such  a  bright  light  before  me,  and  it  seems  so  dark 
now.  Poor  Julia !  better  had  she  stayed  in  the  land  of  snows 
than  have  come  to  find  among  our  flowers  something  colder 
and  more  unmelting." 

Linda  was  really  vexed  at  Robert's  insensibility.  She 
had  thought  the  knowledge  that  he  was  beloved  by  such  a 
being  as  Julia,  would  be  welcomed  with  rapture;  that  he 
would  open  his  arms  to  receive  her  as  a  heaven-sent  treasure, 
and  shelter  her  from  sorrow,  sickness,  and  death  itself.  Linda 
was  accustomed  to  find  herself  irresistible,  now  she  pleaded 
in  vain.  She  had  compromised  Julia's  delicacy,  and  her  own 
too,  in  proclaiming  an  unsolicited  attachment,  in  the  enthusi 
astic  hope  of  a  happy  result,  and  she  was  doomed  to  disap 
pointment.  If  Robert  was  determined  to  close  his  heart  to 
domestic  love  and  joy,  to  reject  one  whom  her  imagination 
clothed  with  the  attributes  of  an  angel,  whose  life  she  had 
represented  as  trembling  on  his  will,  why  should  she  make 
herself  wretched  ?  She  could  not  help  it.  She  had  suppli 
cated,  she  had  prayed;  there  was  nothing  left  for  her  but  to 
weep.  That  she  would  not  do;  it  was  too  childish.  So, 
turning  away  her  head,  she  took  some  flowers  from  a  vase 
that  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  and,  bending  over  them, 
the  tears  she  resolved  Robert  should  not  see  dropped  upon 
the  petals. 

"Are    those    tears  for   me  or  for  Julia?"  asked    Robert, 


146  ROBERT   GRAHAM: 

hastily  rising  and  approaching  her,  stung  to  the  soul  by  her 
last  words. 

"For  both!"  she  answered;  then  added  ingenuously,  "for 
myself  too  !  I  feel  very  much  as  the  spoiled  child  when  its 
darling  wish  is  refused  gratification,  or  who,  having  erected  a 
beautiful  card  castle,  just  as  it  gives  the  crowning  touch,  sees 
it  demolished  by  a  breath." 

"  You  think  me  cold,  selfish,  and  cruel,  Linda — I  see  you 
do — and  I  cannot  repel  the  charge.  I  am  not  ungrateful  for 
the  interest  you  feel  in  my  happiness — heaven  knows  I  am 
not !  You  have  taken  me  so  by  surprise ;  my  mind  feels 
unsettled,  bewildered  !  my  head  aches  !  my  brain  reels!  The 
pillars  of  the  lonely  temple  of  my  heart  seem  tottering,  and  I 
ready  to  be  crushed  beneath  the  ruins !  I  will  think  of  it, 
Linda,  not  lightly,  but  deeply — prayerfully !  I  will  lay  the 
subject  before  God,  in  the  stillness  of  the  midnight  hour,  with 
humility  and  solemnity,  on  bended  knee,  and  with  devout  arid 
earnest  spirit.  You  have  placed  upon  me  a  fearful  responsi 
bility,  and  if  I  am  made  to  believe  that  it  justly  rests  on 
me,  I  promise  you,  my  beloved  sister,  by  my  honour  as  a  man, 
and  my  faith  as  a  Christian,  I  will  assume  it,  whatever  be  the 
sacrifice." 

"  Talk  not  of  sacrifices,"  said  Linda,  unutterably  affected 
by  the  gentle  sadness  of  his  concluding  words,  and  feeling 
that  his  happiness  had  not  its  foundation  in  this  world. 
"  When  I  began  this  subject,  I  did  not  think  of  its  involving 
such  very  painful  interests.  I  fear  I  have  been  wrong.  For 
give  me  if  for  one  moment  I  thought  you  inexorable  and 
cold.  Forgive  me  for  having  dared  to  dictate  in  a  matter  of 
so  much  delicacy,  so  peculiarly  your  own.  I  shall  never  renew 
the  subject,  dear  Robert;  and  whatever  be  your  own  views  of 
it  hereafter,  let  not  the  remembrance  of  this  scene  rise  as  an 
intercepting  cloud  between  you  and  me." 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  smile  of  perfect  reconcilia 
tion,  and  a  glance  that  deprecated  his  displeasure.  Robert 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  147 

took  the  offered  hand,  pressed  it  a  moment,  then  suddenly 
letting  it  fall,  he  walked  to  the  door. 

"  Farewell,  Linda  V  he  cried,  pausing  on  the  threshold,  and 
looking  back,  lingeringly,  as  if  on  the  eve  of  a  long  separation. 

"  Robert,  where  are  you  going  ?"  exclaimed  Linda,  following 
him  to  the  door.  "  Why  do  you  say  farewell  in  that  strange, 
unnatural  accent  ?  Surely  you  are  not  going  to  leave  me  ?" 

"Did  I  say  farewell?"  cried  he,  forcing  a  smile.  "I 
meant  to  have  said  good-night — that  is  all.  I  did  not  know  I 
uttered  so  solemn  a  word.  Good-night,  Linda.  Did  I  say  it 
right  this  time  ?" 

"Good-night,  Robert.  Stop  a  moment;  you  look  sick. 
What  shall  I  do  for  you  before  you  go  ?  Stay,  if  it  be  only 
for  a  glass  of  wine." 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  I  need  nothing." 

"  Is  the  bandage  on  your  arm  easy  ?  Shall  not  Judy  dress 
the  wound  again  before  you  sleep  ?" 

11  Oh,  no;  I  would  forget  it  altogether  were  it  not  for  this 
light  fetter." 

The  scarf  with  which  Linda  had  bound  his  arm  now  passed 
round  his  neck  as  a  sling.  Judy  had  brought  him  one  of 
white  linen,  but  he  preferred  that,  he  said,  for  it  was  lighter 
and  more  elastic. 

"  Well,  if  you  will  not  let  me  do  any  thing  for  you,  you 
had  better  go,  for  I  am  sure  you  need  rest.  I  cannot  forgive 
myself  for  having  disturbed  you  so,  after  suffering  too,  and 
endangering  yourself  for  me." 

"No  more,  Linda,  I  pray  you;  good  night." 

He  repeated  it  again,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he  was 
master  of  his  words,  and  retired  to  his  chamber,  but  not  to 
rest.  The  moment  he  was  alone,  he  cast  himself  on  his 
knees,  and  bowing  his  face  on  his  right  hand,  gave  vent  to 
his  imprisoned  emotions.  He  had  been  exercising  such 
mighty  self-control,  there  was  such  a  tension  on  the  brain, 
such  a  girdle  round  the  heart,  it  seemed  as  it'  they  had  not 


148  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

loosened  he  must  have  died.  Never  had  Liiida  seemed  so 
unspeakably  lovely,  or  so  unconquerably  loved,  as  when  she 
pleaded  so  earnestly,  so  warmly  for  another.  Never  had  he 
found  it  so  hard  to  repress  the  wild  waves  that  were  surging 
up,  and  threatening  to  overflow  the  limits  of  prudence, 
honour,  and  religion.  He  felt  so  humiliated,  so  crushed  by  a 
knowledge  of  his  own  weakness — he  who,  a  few  months 
before,  had  thought  himself  so  strong  and  self-relying. 
Where  were  his  ministerial  vows,  his  renunciation  of  the 
world,  his  devotion  to  heaven?  Were  his  Saviour  and  his 
God  dethroned  for  the  human  idol  whose  worship  he  had 
himself  pronounced  sacrilege  and  sin?  Where  was  the  spirit 
ual  strength  that  had  sustained  him  in  all  the  heat  and  bur 
den  of  the  days  of  missionary  toil  ?  Where  was  the  angel  of  tho 
roaring  lion's  den  ? — the  guardian  who,  in  the  likeness  of  the 
Son  of  God,  walked  with  the  Hebrew  children  in  the  fiery 
furnace  ?  They  were  not  near,  but  the  tempter  was ;  and 
whispered  in  his  ear,  while  Linda  was  entreating  him  to  give 
his  heart  to  another,  that  perchance  the  hand  of  destiny 
might  liberate  her,  and  he  could  then  claim  her,  without  guilt, 
as  the  purchase  of  his  undying  love.  Ah  yes !  the  tempter 
watched  him,  as  the  ancient  warriors  watched  their  foe,  to 
find  the  only  openings  in  their  iron  armour  where  the  sword 
could  penetrate.  He  did  not  promise  him  the  kingdoms  of 
this  world,  nor  power,  nor  glory,  nor  dominion, — he  would 
have  spurned  them  as  dust, — but  he  whispered  to  him,  that  if 
he  kept  himself  unbound,  the  day  might  come  when,  by  the 
decrees  of  Providence,  she  whom  he  had  so  long  loved  might 
yet  be  his.  This  was  the  only  accessible  place  in  the  steel 
panoply  of  his  integrity;  but  the  moment  he  felt  the  arrow 
of  temptation  enter,  he  wrenched  it  forth,  and  hurled  it  from 
him,  though  the  flesh  quivered  on  its  barbed  point. 

"My  God !"  he  exclaimed,  torn  by  remorse,  and  steeped  in 
self-abasement,  "my  God!  forsake  me  not;  forsake  me  not 
in  my  extremity.  I  return  to  thee  in  the  deep  humility  of  a 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  149 

broken  and  contrite  spirit.  Oh !  Thou  who  wast  strengthened 
by  angels  in  thine  hour  of  mortal  agony,  and  who  hast  now 
ten  thousand  legions  at  thy  command,  send  down  one,  even 
one  !  oh,  my  Saviour !  to  bear  me  up,  and  keep  my  feet  from 
stumbling,  as  I  tread  the  dark  and  narrow  path.  Methinks  I 
hear  thee,  sacred  Mourner,  say  :  (  Couldst  thou  not  watch  one 
hour  while  I  went  apart  from  thee  ?'  And  thou,  too,  Holy 
Spirit,  divine  Comforter,  thou  whom  I  have  grieved  from  my 
bosom,  return  and  fold  thy  wings  once  more  in  thy  deserted 
nest.  The  storm  that  rent  the  foliage  which  sheltered  thee 
will  be  lulled,  as  soon  as  thy  downy  touch  is  felt." 

Prostrate  on  his  knees,  with  his  face  buried  in  bis  hands, 
Robert  lay,  till  the  midnight  hour  rolled  near,  and  the  stars 
trembled  through  a  chill,  dewy  atmosphere.  Then  he  rose, 
and  his  footsteps  muffled  by  the  soft  carpet  on  which  they  were 
pressed,  he  walked  till  he  found  himself  silvered  by  the  rising 
moon,  whose  waning  face  looked  down  reproachfully  on  his  for 
disturbing  the  mystery  of  her  beams. 

Robert  lived  a  century  in  that  single  night,  counting 
hours  by  the  dial  of  thought.  As  soon  as  he  was  sufficiently 
composed  to  reflect  with  calmness,  he  brought  before  him 
every  argument  Linda  had  urged  in  Julia's  cause,  and  weighed 
them  in  the  balance  of  reason  and  conscience.  He  acquit 
ted  himself  of  all  intention  or  thought  of  deluding  her 
into  a  belief  that  he  loved  her  otherwise  than  he  professed  to 
do ;  but  her  pale,  sweet  face  haunted  him,  with  its  expression 
of  dove-like  innocence  and  profound  sensibility.  He  saw  it  in 
the  shadows  that  gathered  in  the  room  ;  he  saw  it  in  the  moon 
light  that  glimmered  in  the  heavens;  he  saw  it,  too,  looking 
up  toward  him  from  the  depths  of  a  new-made  grave,  and  a 
voice  seemed  to  issue  from  it,  saying,  "  Oh,  cold  and  hard  of 
heart !  Thy  hand  dug  this  clay-cold  bed.  Thine  eyes  beheld 
me  fading  in  my  early  spring,  and  though  one  tear  of  pity 
might  have  revived  my  wilted  bloom,  thou  hadst  no  tear  for 
me.  I  came  a  young  and  tender  blossom  from  my  nati 


150  ROBERT    GRAHAM  ! 

and  tiiou  didst  shine  upon  me  like  the  tropic  sun,  with  wither 
ing  power.  Like  a  flower  of  the  field  I  have  perished,  and  the 
places  that  once  knew  shall  know  me  no  more  forever." 

And  then  it  seemed  to  him  the  wail  of  a  broken  heart  was 
in  his  ears,  and  the  rising  breeze  sighed  with  dirge-like  sound, 
and  the  stars  gleamed  like  funeral  lamps  on  the  sweeping  pall 
of  night. 

And  then  the  shadows  rolled  away,  and  a  vision  rose  before 
him  of  domestic  peace,  if  not  joy,  of  a  fireside  sacred  from  intru 
ding  passions,  where  the  world-weary  spirit  found  some  serene 
repose.  That  sweet,  haunting  face  was  there,  wearing  a  smile 
of  celestial  happiness,  and  the  cheek  blooming  with  renovated 
roses.  If  solar  warmth  and  splendour  were  wanting,  the  purity 
and  tranquillity  of  moonlight  reigned.  If  it  was  not  the  Eden 
for  which  he  had  panted,  it  was  a  bower  of  rest,  such  as  the 
wayfaring  pilgrim  on  the  journey  of  life  might  welcome  the 
more  joyfully,  that  though  it  was  sweet  enough  for  earthly  re 
pose,  he  was  not  in  danger  of  forgetting  his  heavenly  home; 
and  over  that  fireside  was  written  in  large,  luminous  characters, 
tl  Security  from  temptation,  safeguard  from  sin,  proof  of  the 
sincerity  of  repentance,  the  steadfastness  of  faith,  holiness  to 
the  Lord,  justice  to  men." 

One  by  one  the  mystic  characters  came  forth,  and  assumed 
the  most  startling  distinctness,  like  letters  traced  on  an  elec 
trical  jar.  Then  they  seemed  to  be  gifted  with  sounding 
tongues,  and  chimed  in  his  ear  like  the  Christmas  bells  of  a 
great  cathedral;  and  again  they  appealed  to  another  quickened 
sense,  and  swelled  out  beneath  his  imaginary  touch,  as  the 
words  do  fashioned  for  the  blind  man's  fingers.  Then  sight, 
hearing,  and  touch  all  united  in  a  wild,  inexplicable  melange, 
and  sleep  rolled  over  him  in  a  dark,  heavy  wave. 


.A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  151 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WE  left  Nora  at  the  piano,  and  Henry  standing  by  the  music 
stool  of  the  versatile  mocking-bird,  trying  to  make  her  finish 
one  song  before  she  began  another.  She  had  a  wild,  sweet 
voice,  and  a  brilliant  touch,  and  might  have  made  a  superb 
musician,  could  she  have  commanded  patience  enough  to  prac 
tise,  and  perseverance  enough  to  execute  all  her  genius  grasped. 

"  Do  finish  that  song,  Nora,"  said  Henry,  "  it  is  my  favour 
ite.  My  wife  used  to  sing  it  to  me  at  the  twilight  hour,  and 
her  voice  was  as  soft  as  the  stilly  dews." 

"  Then  you  should  not  wish  me  to  desecrate  it,"  replied 
Nora,  "and  break  the  sweet  charm  of  associations.  It  ought 
to  be  an  air  enshrined  and  holy,  for  no  female  lips  to  breathe." 

"  I  never  asked  one  to  sing  it  but  yourself,  since  the  lips 
that  endeared  it  have  been  silent.  I  would  not  ask  another, 
Nora,  for  there  does  a  holy  charm  rest  upon  it  that  renders  it 
sacred  to  me." 

Nora  looked  up  in  his  face,  struck  by  the  peculiar  tone  of 
his  voice;  but  she  read  something  there  that  beat  down  her 
eyes,  bright  and  saucy  as  they  were.  She  could  not  at  that 
moment  jest  lightly  on  any  thing  consecrated  by  sacred  memo 
ries,  and  immediately  commenced  again  the  song  he  loved,  and 
actually  finished  it,  in  soft  and  sweetly  modulated  tones.  Henry 
listened  with  trembling  eagerness,  fearful  lest  the  wild  crea 
ture  should  break  the  spell  by  suddenly  dashing  into  a  differ 
ent  strain.  He  gazed  upon  her  with  intense  admiration.  The 
image  of  the  fair  young  wife  whose  memory  hallowed  the  song, 
faded  before  the  living  brightness  of  Nora's  form.  The  truth 
was,  the  gay,  brilliant,  and  capricious  Southern  girl  had  com 
pletely  fascinated  the  Northern  student.  He  had  resolved  to 
study  her  character  more  fully  before  he  yielded  his  judgment 


152  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

to  the  allurements  of  fancy,  to  discover  if  she  really  had  a 
heart  lying  beneath  the  foam  and  sparkle  of  her  words,  but 
the  spell  of  her  witchery  was  too  strong.  He  was  no  longer 
master  of  himself.  Nora,  whatever  she  was, — all  foam  and 
sparkle,  or  perchance  the  fountain's  depth  and  clearness, — was 
tis  destiny. 

"  Thank  you  a  thousand  times,"  said  he;  "the  strains  will 
henceforth  be  doubly  dear;  they  are  consecrated  by  the  two 
fold  charm  of  memory  and  hope." 

"I  do  not  like  sad  songs,"  said  Nora;  "they  make  me  feel 
as  if  I  could  be  wretched,  and  if  I  have  the  capacity,  I  do 
not  wish  to  know  it.  This  is  more  to  my  taste." 

And  she  began  one  of  the  liveliest,  merriest  strains,  smiling 
and  nodding  her  head  in  accompaniment,  now  and  then  glanc 
ing  at  Henry  her  gipsy,  black  eyes. 

"  Do  be  serious  a  few  moments,  Nora,"  cried  Henry,  boldly 
arresting  the  jewelled  fingers  that  flew  over  the  keys;  "it  is 
not  often  we  are  alone,  and  I  have  that  to  say  which  cannot 
be  breathed  in  another's  presence.  My  heart  is  full;  it  must 
speak,  and  find  a  listener,  too." 

"  Well !"  exclaimed  Nora,  turning  gravely  round,  and  lean 
ing  her  head  on  her  hand,  while  her  elbow  rested  on  the 
piano,  with  the  most  demure  expression  imaginable;  "I  am  all 
attention." 

Poor  Henry !  if  she  had  dashed  a  goblet  of  cold  water  in 
his  face,  he  could  not  have  been  more  disconcerted.  Just  as  a 
most  fervid  declaration  of  love  was  trembling  on  his  lips  and 
flashing  in  his  eyes, — just  as  he  had  imprisoned  that  perverse 
hand,  and  imagined  its  yielding  softness  responded  to  the  pres 
sure  of  his,  to  meet  that  face  of  mocking  gravity  and  air  of 
frigid  attention,  instead  of  the  averted  cheek  and  downcast 
eye  that  marks  a  lover's  triumph, — it  was  outrageous,  unen 
durable. 

"  Nora,  you  are  enough  to  drive  a  man  crazy !"  cried  he, 
dropping  her  hand,  his  face  turning  a  crimson  hue.  "  I  never 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  153 

saw  a  creature  so  wayward,  so  tantalizing,  and,  I  fear,  so 
heartless/' 

"  Why,  what  have  I  done,  sir  ?  You  asked  my  attention, 
and  I  gave  it.  I  am  sure  I  did.  I  thought  I  was  behaving 
very  prettily  indeed.  Well,  if  you  don't  choose  to  speak,  I 
will  finish  my  song/' 

"  No,  you  shall  not  sing,  nor  play,  nor  mock  me  either  with 
you  elfin  pranks;  but  you  shall  listen  to  me,  as  woman  ought 
to  listen  to  the  man  that  loves  her  with  a  true  and  loyal  heart. 
You  shall  listen,  that  I  may  know  whether  I  am  wasting  my 
soul's  treasures  on  one  who  heeds  them  not,  or  whether  I  am 
enshrining  them  in  a  golden  casket,  that  I  will  wear  in  my 
bosom  forever." 

And  Henry  again  took  her  unresisting  hand,  and  leading  her 
to  a  sofa,  placed  himself  beside  her,  while  he  compelled  her  to 
listen  to  many  eloquent  and  impassioned  words.  She  listened 
till  she  seemed  magnetized  by  the  spell  he  threw  around  her. 
Her  colour  grew  brighter  and  warmer, — rays  of  pleasure  stole 
from  her  downcast  eyes,  and  the  quick,  tremulous  motion  of 
the  lace  that  shaded  her  bosom  denoted  the  quickened  pulsa 
tions  of  her  heart.  No  art  could  have  dissembled  such  rap 
ture  of  attention,  such  passive  acknowledgment  of  another's 
power. 

"  Speak,  Nora!"  exclaimed  Henry,  enchanted  at  an  effect 
so  much  beyond  his  most  sanguine  hopes;  "  thou  most  be 
loved,  as  thou  art  most  bewitching  of  human  beings, — speak, 
and  tell  me  that  the  warm  heart,  which  now  glows  and  speaks 
in  every  feature  of  your  face,  in  every  glance  of  your  eye,  is 
mine,  and  mine  alone.  Tell  me  this,  and  receive  in  return 
the  gratitude  and  adoration  of  my  whole  life." 

Henry,  who  was  lifted  to  the  third  heaven  on  the  wings  of 
triumph,  was  about  to  commit  some  of  the  usual  extravagances 
of  young  lovers,  when  Nora  sprang  up  with  the  quickness  of 
the  antelope,  and  flew  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  room. 

"Mr.  Bellenden,  it  is  you  who  are  crazy,"  she  cried;  "you 


154  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

really  cannot  know  what  you  are  doing.  You  are  too  demon 
strative;  indeed,  you  are." 

She  shook  back  her  wild  ringlets,  and  tried  to  frown;  but 
Henry  saw  the  gleam  of  her  pearly-white  teeth,  and  knew  the 
smile  was  there. 

"  This  is  not  a  moment  for  levity,"  said  Henry,  again  ap 
proaching  her;  "  the  happiness  of  my  future  life  hangs  trem 
bling  on  it,  and  so  does  yours,  dear  Nora.  I  know  it — I  feel 
it.  Be  true  to  yourself,  and  ingenuously  acknowledge  it. 
Yield  that  wild  heart  unreservedly  to  my  safe  and  holy  keep 
ing.  Give  it  nobly — give  it  generously:  you  never,  never 
shall  repent  the  gift." 

"  I  have  no  heart — I  have  nothing  to  give,"  cried  Nora, 
visibly  agitated,  and  snatching  away  the  hand  which  Henry 
had  again  taken;  "I  know  nothing  about  love,  and  I  don't 
wish  to  know;  I  am  a  thousand  times  happier  as  I  am.  I 
would  not  place  my  happiness  in  any  man's  keeping;  no, 
though  he  came  to  me  in  the  guise  of  an  archangel.  I  like 
you  as  well  as  I  do  any  one, — perhaps  better;  but  never  talk 
to  me  in  this  way  again,  if  you  have  the  least  regard  for  my 
good  opinion.  I  really  thought  you  had  more  sense." 

"  And  I  thought  you  had  more  feeling,"  said  Henry,  vexed, 
tantalized,  angry,  yet  still  more  fascinated  than  ever.  "  But 
if  you  like  me  better  than  any  one,  on  that  confession  rise 
mountains  of  hope.  If  I  have  no  rival,  I  must  and  will  pre 
vail,  for  every  woman's  heart  was  formed  for  love.  Your  lips 
deny  my  suit,  Nora,  but  your  eyes  beam  assent." 

tl  If  they  do,  they  belie  my  heart,"  said  Nora,  her  cheeks 
dyed  with  deepening  crimson ;  "  for,  whether  you  believe  me 
or  not,  I  utter  the  words  of  truth  and  soberness.  I  never 
intend  to  marry,  and  you  shall  not  call  me  a  coquette.  Sit 
down,  if  you  please,  and  listen  to  me  one  moment,  even  as  I 
have  done  to  you.  No,  not  in  that  chair, — the  one  farther  off, 
Don't  look  angry;  I  don't  wish  to  provoke,  but  convince.  No 
one  believes  a  young  girl  when  she  says  she  does  not  intend 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  155 

to  marry.  They  laugh,  and  shake  the  head,  and  exclaim, — 
'  Let  her  wait  till  she  is  asked.'  Now,  I  have  been  asked 
before,  more  than  once;  but  I  did  not  like  the  wooers,  and  it 
was  very  easy  to  say,  Nay.  I  do  like  you,  as  well  as  I  ever 
expect  to  like  any  one,  and  my  resolution  is  still  unshaken.'' 

"  But,  Nora" — 

"  Hush  !  I  have  the  floor,  and  you  must  hear  me  through. 
The  man  who  tried  to  govern  me,  I  should  hate;  the  man 
who  allowed  me  to  rule  him,  I  should  despise.  The  man  who 
permitted  me  to  have  my  own  way,  I  could  not  respect,  and, 
therefore,  could  not  love, — and  yet  my  own  way  I  must  have. 
I  know  it  is  a  bad  one — a  daring,  headstrong,  wild-coltish 
way;  but  it  is  mine,  and  I  cannot  live  without  it." 

"But,  Nora,  listen  one  moment." 

"  Hush,  I  say,  Henry  Bellenden.  You  believe  me  heartless; 
but  had  I  less  heart,  I  would  be  willing  to  marry.  Had  I  less 
feeling,  I  would  be  willing  to  incur  fond,  believing  woman's 
almost  certain  doom — indifference,  neglect,  or  alienation." 

"  Good  heavens  !"  exclaimed  Henry,  rising  hastily  from  his 
chair;  "  what  a  libel  on  man  !" 

"  Yes,'\continued  Nora,  laughing  at  his  excitement,  yet  dis 
regarding  the  interruptions,  "it  is  because  I  know  that  I  could 
love  so  deeply,  so  passionately,  that  I  will  not  love  at  all.  Men 
are  all  tyrants — all  Napoleons  in  their  way  :  some  wrap  their 
sceptre  in  down,  and  twine  it  with  flowers,  but  it  is,  never 
theless,  the  rod  of  empire,  and  wo  to  the  wife  who  disputes 
its  awful  sway.  No,  Henry,  I  would  rather  l  be  a  kitten  and 
cry  mew'  in  the  chimney-corner,  than  lead  the  humdrum, 
treadmill  life  half  the  married  women  in  the  world  do." 

"  Captain  Lee  and  his  Linda  are  signal  proofs  of  tho  truth 
of  your  assertion,"  cried  Henry,  sarcastically,  wrought  up  t<? 
quite  a  feeling  of  vengeance  for  the  wrongs  of  his  sex. 

"  There  is  but  one  Linda  in  the  universe,  and  Captain  Lee 
is  her  counterpart.  If  I  were  Linda,  I  might  rely  on  the  con 
stancy  of  men ;  but  being  nothing  more  nor  less  than  what 


156  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

I  am,  I  dare  not  cast  my  maiden  hopes  on  the  hazard  of 
a  die." 

"I  could  bring  forward  such  proofs  of  man's  constancy  as 
to  redeem  the  whole  sex  from  your  charge,"  said  Henry, 
warmly ;  "  man's  heart  is  the  rock,  which  neither  wavering 
winds  nor  beating  billows  can  move — woman's,  the  wave  curl 
ing  by  the  faintest  breath  of  air." 

"  Is  it  you  that  boast  of  constancy,  Henry,  when  not  one 
hour  ago  you  bade  me  sing  a  song  hallowed  by  the  memory  of 
one  to  whom  you  once  breathed  vows  as  warm,  nay,  I  doubt 
not,  warmer  than  you  have  just  now  uttered  to  me !  You  talk 
of  constancy !  She  should  have  purchased  your  immortal 
love,  for  she  passed  from  you  in  all  her  fair  bloom  and  beauty, 
before  time  had  robbed  her  of  one  youthful  charm ;  and  yet 
you  have  suffered  her  image  to  be  supplanted  by  such  a  mere 
flippategibbet  as  I  am."  She  spoke  with  well-dissembled  scorn, 
and  her  eye  had  a  mocking  gleam. 

Henry  started  as  if  pierced  by  an  unseen  weapon.  His  face 
turned  as  pale  as  the  linen  collar  below  it,  and  his  blue  eye 
looked  the  colour  of  steel.  Nora  had  gone  too  far,  and  she  felt 
it, — felt  it  too  late.  She  had  roused  the  couchant  lion,  while 
she  only  thought  to  lay  her  hand  lightly  on  his  mane. 

"And  is  this  cruel  taunt  your  only  return  for  the  outpouring 
of  every  bosom  thought,  the  full  confidence,  the  sacred  trust  I 
have  reposed  in  you  ?  But  I  deserve  it  for  my  weakness  and 
delusion,  deserve  it  for  having  placed  an  idol  of  stone  on  the 
altar  where  a  saint  was  once  worshipped." 

He  spoke  in  the  low  tones  of  suppressed  emotion,  then  turned 
hastily  and  quitted  the  room ;  quitted  it  before  the  repenting 
Nora  could  open  her  lips  to  bid  him  stay. 

She  sat  perfectly  still  a  moment,  listening  for  his  return. 
He  was  not  really  as  angry  as  he  seemed.  He  would  certainly 
come  back  and  seek  the  reconciliation  he  must  know  she  was 
willing  to  grant.  But  he  came  not.  Five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes 
passed ;  she  counted  them  as  she  would  dropping  sands,  by 


A   SEQUEL  TO   LINDA.  157 

the  French  clock  over  the  mantelpiece, — counted  them  till  she 
felt  lonely  and  dreary,  and  wretchedly  out  of  humour  with  her 
self.  What  evil  spirit  had  instigated  her  lawless  tongue  to 
upbraid  him  for  an  attachment  he  had  described  in  such  beau 
tiful  harmony  with  the  sentiments  he  still  cherished  for  the 
dead  ?  "Why  had  she  so  cruelly  trifled  with  a  heart  she  had  not 
fully  appreciated  till  she  deemed  it  forever  lost  ? 
She  would  have  exclaimed  with  the  tender  Juliet, 

"  0  for  a  falconer's  voice, 
To  lure  this  tassel  gentle  back  again  !" 

But  he  was  gone  beyond  recall ;  gone  in  pride  and  resentment, 
only  too  justly  roused.  Nora  sat,  with  her  hands  clasped,  list 
ening,  starting,  resolving  if  Henry  did  return  to  make  a  charm 
ing  apology,  and  be  all  that  was  gentle  and  amiable.  But  she 
"  found  no  place  for  repentance"  then,  though  earnestly  and 
sorely  she  craved  it. 

"I  did  not  wish  to  marry  him.  I  never  wish  to  marry  any 
one/'  said  Nora  to  herself,  trying  to  test  the  sincerity  of  her 
words ;  "  but  I  did  not  mean  to  cast  him  from  me  as  a  friend. 
He  is  a  charming  companion,  a  noble-hearted  fellow;  oh;  dear, 
what  a  matchless  goose  I  am  !" 

Here  Nora  raised  her  hands  to  her  face,  and  actually  burst 
into  tears.  She  had  been  trying  to  keep  them  back,  but  they 
would  come, — come  in  a  gush,  free  and  warm  as  a  summer 
shower,  and  soft  and  refreshing  as  the  dews  of  evening. 

What  a  pity  Henry  had  not  left  his  glove  or  handerchief, 
and  returned  at  this  propitious  moment !  What  a  pity  he  had 
not  seen  her  in  the  sincerity  of  her  penitence,  the  abandonment 
of  her  sorrow !  But  Nora  was  doomed  to  weep  alone,  and  to 
wipe  away  her  tears  with  her  own  handkerchief,  and  we  are 
sorry  to  say  that  her  heart  grew  hard  as  the  tears  ceased  to  flow. 

"  I  will  not  be  such  a  fool,  such  a  baby,  as  to  sit  crying  and 
sobbing  here,"  thought  she,  rising  and  shaking  her  handker 
chief  indignantly.  "I  don't  care,  I'm  sure;  if  he  chooses  to 
give  me  up  so  lightly,  he's  welcome  to  do  it.  I  am  not  going 
28 


158  ROBERT   GRAHAM  I 

down  on  my  knees  to  his  royal  highness,  entreating  to  be  re 
stored  to  his  regal  favour,  not  I.  As  quick  as  he  is  to  resent, 
let  him  be  slow  to  forgive.  I  ought  not  to  have  said  what  I  did, 
but  it  is  true — every  word  is  true.  After  loving  and  being 
loved,  by  such  a  being  as  he  describes  her  to  have  been,  how 
can  he  transfer  his  affections  to  me ;  me,  so  wilful,  so  incorri 
gible,  so  little  worthy  of  his  love  ?" 

"When  Nora  retired  to  her  chamber,  she  rejoiced  that  Julia 
slept,  so  as  not  to  observe  the  traces  of  her  unusual  agitation. 
It  was  a  strange  thing  for  her  to  lie  awake,  listening  to  the 
breathings  of  another,  but  her  eyes  seemed  propped  open  by 
some  invisible  hand.  She  tried  to  shut  them,  but  they  would 
fly  wide  open.  Every  thing  looked  so  dim  and  ghostly  by  the 
glimmering  starlight — even  Julia's  face  on  the  white  pillow, 
so  still  and  deathlike  in  its  serene  repose — she  did  not  like 
to  glance  around  her.  All  at  once  she  saw  a  star  shining 
through  the  parting  of  the  window  curtains.  It  seemed  to  fix 
upon  her  its  bright,  resplendent  eye,  and  speak  to  her  of 
the  mystery  of  its  beams.  It  was  the  only  one  visible  of  all 
the  host  of  heaven,  through  the  parted  drapery,  and  Nora's 
wandering  thoughts  steadied  under  its  solitary  brightness.  It 
was  a  burning  ray  from  the  All-seeing,  penetrating  the  secrets 
of  her  heart,  and  rebuking  its  folly.  Oh !  how  long  it  had 
been  shining ;  that  little  star,  holding  its  silver  lamp  over  the 
bosom  of  the  sleepless,  for  the  eye  of  God  to  read ! 

Perhaps  Henry  was  gazing,  too,  on  that  very  planet,  and 
thinking  how  sweetly  it  shone  on  his  wife's  distant  grave, 
and  in  how  short  a  time,  in  the  course  of  human  events,  it 
might  be  beaming  on  his  own.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
Nora  reflected  deeply  on  the  vanity  of  her  own  pursuits,  and 
the  wings  of  her  spirit  fluttered  for  a  heavenly  flight.  She 
was  sorry  she  was  in  the  habit  of  sleeping  so  soundly  when 
the  stars  were  such  glorious  company.  She  would  try  to  lie 
awake  every  night,  and  learn  the  sacred  lore  of  the  skies.  In 
the  midst  of  all  this  wisdom,  she  caught  herself  several  tiinea 


A   SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  159 

wondering  how  Henry  would  look  when  he  met  her  in  the 
morning,  and  how  he  would  address  her,  if  he  spoke  to  her 
at  all. 

He  did  speak  to  her  very  courteously,  but  very  coldly,  and 
she  answered  him  in  the  same  manner.  The  others  were  too 
much  pre-occupied  to  observe  any  thing  peculiar,  so  their 
estrangement  was  not  noticed. 

Robert  looked  so  ill  that  Linda  was  alarmed,  and  insisted 
upon  sending  for  a  surgeon.  Aunt  Judy,  when  she  examined 
his  wounded  arm,  said  that  it  was  mightily  inflamed,  and  that 
Tuscarora  ought  to  attend  to  it,  for  he  was  wonderful  in  cures. 
Robert,  who  resisted  Linda's  entreaties  that  he  would  put  him 
self  under  the  care  of  a  physician,  willingly  consented  to 
Judy's  proposition;  and  the  Indian  leech  came,  his  simple 
medicines  contained  in  the  brilliantly  wrought  hunting-pouch, 
suspended  from  his  neck. 

Though  Nora  and  Julia  had  visited  his  cabin,  they  had  not 
seen  Tuscarora.  He  was  absent,  and  the  gentle  Naimuna, 
exalted  into  a  heroine  by  her  association  with  Linda's  forest 
adventures,  received  them  with  the  grace  of  civilization. 

Nora,  who  had  been  unusually  sober  and  silent  the  whole 
morning,  kindled  into  rapture  at  the  first  glance  of  the  Indian's 
stately  figure,  and  Julia,  though  less  demonstrative,  gazed 
with  equal  interest  on  the  noble  Christian  savage.  We  are 
glad  to  welcome  thee  once  more,  princely  scion  of  a  kingly 
race, — majestic  specimen  of  the  sons  of  the  wilderness.  The 
same  serene  gravity  rests  upon  thy  brow,  the  same  melancholy 
sweetness  softens  thy  firmly-closed  lips,  and  the  same  slumber 
ing  power  is  felt  in  thy  glittering  eye. 

"  What  a  magnificent  creature  !"  exclaimed  Nora,  quite 
audibly,  as  he  entered  the  room, — his  waist  girdled  by  the 
many-coloured  belt  of  wampum,  and  moccasins,  wrought  with 
brilliant  porcupine  quills,  encasing  his  feet.  Little  Walton, 
the  moment  he  beheld  him,  stretched  out  his  arms  with  a  cry 
of  delight,  and  laid  his  soft  cheek  lovingly  on  his  deer -skin 


1GO  ROBERT   GRAHAM: 

robe.  Tuscarora  loved  the  child  of  Linda  with  exceeding  ten 
derness,  and  taxed  his  forest  skill  for  the  invention  of  play 
things  for  the  young  eaglet,  as  he  called  the  infant, — and  no 
thing  could  be  more  attractive  to  the  eye  of  childhood  than 
the  picturesque  costume  and  gorgeous  colours  that  still  dis 
tinguished  the  Indian  from  his  white  brethren.  It  was  not 
from  a  gaudy  taste,  but  a  respect  for  ancestral  customs,  that 
Tuscarora  wore  the  dress  of  the  aborigines  in  the  midst  of 
civilized  life. 

"  Why  is  my  young  brother  so  pale,  and  why  is  his  hand 
burning  with  fever  ?"  asked  he,  walking  directly  to  Robert, 
who  reclined  on  a  sofa,  suifering  more  from  his  wounded  arm 
than  he  had  expressed  to  Linda.  "  And  why  is  he  bound  like 
the  oak  when  the  forest  vine  ties  itself  round  its  branches  ?" 

"  The  enemy  whom  I  had  defeated  face  to  face,  stole  after 
ward  on  my  footsteps,  and  shot  like  a  coward  at  my  back," 
answered  Robert,  "else  he  had  not  given  me  this  wound." 

He  then  gave  a  slight  sketch  of  his  yesterday's  adventure, 
but  Linda's  grateful  tongue  supplied  all  that  he  omitted. 

"  The  foe  lurks  in  ambush,  gallant  Tuscarora,"  said  Linda, 
(she  always  addressed  him  in  figurative  language,  for  she  knew 
it  pleased  him,)  "  but  the  arm  of  the  hunter  is  strong ;  it  will 
guard  us  from  danger  while  the  master  is  away  on  the  deep 
waters,  and  our  friend  is  weak  from  the  blood  he  has  shed  in 
our  defence." 

"  Wo  to  the  wolf  that  prowls  near  the  home  of  my  bene 
factors/'  cried  the  Indian,  his  eye  glittering  for  a  moment  with 
vindictive  fire;  then  his  countenance  resuming  its  expression 
of  placid  dignity,  he  added — 

"  Will  my  brother  come  with  me,  or  will  the  young  maidens 
leave  him  a  while  to  the  mysteries  of  the  healing  art?" 

"  Let  him  not  go,"  said  Linda;  "we  will  retire,  and  you 
must  exercise  your  best  skill  as  an  antidote  to  my  imprudence. 
I  treated  him  last  night  as  if  he  were  well  and  strong,  and 
to-da^  he  suffers  from  my  thoughtlessness." 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  161 

As  Nora  and  Julia  were  passing  out  arm  in  arm,  Tuscarora 
seemed  much  struck  with  the  appearance  of  the  latter.  She 
had  been  seated  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtain,  and  she  glided 
forth,  to  his  forest  eye,  fair  as  the  swan  on  a  sunny  wave. 

"  The  maiden  is  from  the  land  of  snow,"  he  observed,  with 
a  look  of  calm  dignity.  "  Has  my  young  brother  brought  her 
to  the  country  of  flowers  to  dwell  ?  It  is  good." 

"Yes!"  answered  Henry,  coming  forward  and  applying  to 
himself  words  which  evidently  embarrassed  Robert,  and  covered 
Julia's  cheek  with  a  conscious  blush,  "  I  brought  her  hither 
because  our  Northern  winds  are  too  cold,  and  our  wintry 
snows  too  deep.  You  have  never,  I  suppose,  travelled  to 
ward  the  granite  hills  ?" 

"  My  fathers  dwelt  between  the  rivers  of  the  North  and  the 
blue  streams  of  the  South,"  answered  Tuscarora;  "but  the 
friend  who  gave  me  education  brought  me  near  the  waves  of 
the  great  gulf,  and  I  have  never  since  gone  far  from  the  sound 
ing  music  of  its  surges.  I  love  the  woods  and  the  waters. 
My  white  sister  has  built  me  a  cabin  near  the  mighty  Missis 
sippi,  where  I  can  hear  the  voice  of  the  Great  Spirit,  and  adore 
the  God  of  Christians." 

He  turned  a  glance  of  affectionate  gratitude  to  Linda,  who 
lingered  at  the  door  to  hear  his  musical  language,  which  she 
said  always  reminded  her  of  the  autumn  wind  murmuring 
among  her  native  pines. 

"  Great  brother !"  cried  Nora,  running  back  with  her  cus 
tomary  unexpectedness  of  motion ;  "you  have  not  noticed  me 
at  all,  and  I  belong,  like  you,  to  the  wilderness.  Do  you  not 
see  that  I  am  of  kindred  blood  and  spirit  ?  Brother  of  the 
wigwam,  I  greet  thee, — I  long  to  smoke  with  thee  the  caluniet 
of  peace,  and  shoot  the  arrow  from  thy  sounding  bow." 

"  The  quiver  of  Tuscarora  is  full  of  arrows,  and  the  calu 
niet  hangs  from  his  cabin  wall,"  answeredhe,  with  imperturbable 
gravity;  "we  bid  you  welcome.  You  have  the  tongue  of  the 
mocking-bird  and  the  foot  of  the  antelope." 


102  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"  And  you, — you  have  the  eye  of  the  eagle  and  the  step  of 
the  lion,"  cried  Nora,  enchanted  with  her  new  acquaintance. 

"  Fast  speech  agrees  not  with  the  feverish  brain,"  said 
Tuscarora  gravely,  looking  at  Robert,  who  smiled  at  Nora's 
characteristic  address. 

"  Dismissed  with  such  a  kingly  grace !"  exclaimed  Nora, 
leaving  the  room,  and  making  at  the  door  the  graceful  salaam 
of  the  East.  "  I  never  saw  any  thing  like  it.  Do  you  think 
he  would  give  me  lessons  in  archery,  Linda  ?  I  am  serious. 
I  will  certainly  ask  him." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Nothing  would  give  him  more  pleasure.  There 
is  a  beautiful  bow  he  made  for  "Walton,  hanging  in  the  hall, 
with  a  quiver  bristling  with  arrows  by  it.  Try  your  skill  in 
the  garden,  and  make  a  target  of  roses." 

Nora,  who  was  pleased  as  a  child  with  novelty,  sprang  up 
and  caught  the  bow  and  arrows,  purloining  at  the  same  time 
Linda's  gipsy  hat, — and  many  a  flower  and  leaf  bore  witness  to 
her  arrow's  barb.  She  could  not  help  hoping  Henry  would 
follow  her,  and  give  her  an  opportunity,  not  to  apologize, — her 
pride  forbade  such  a  thought, — but  to  reinstate  herself  in  his 
good  opinion.  She  could  see  him  through  the  wreathing 
vines,  seated  quietly  within.  She  could  see  the  lofty  head  of 
the  Indian  bent  over  the  couch  where  Robert  lay.  Henry's 
assistance  did  not  seem  required.  The  seat  he  occupied  com 
manded  a  full  view  of  the  garden  and  the  charming  archer, 
who  was  enacting  the  part  of  Diana  with  so  much  grace  and 
spirit.  But  bewitching  as  Nora  looked  in  the  gipsy  hat 
perched  so  carelessly  on  her  wild  ringlets,  and  whose  rose- 
coloured  riband  sported  with  them  so  fantastically  as  she 
pursued  with  winged  feet  the  flying  arrow,  Henry  maintained 
Ins  seat  with  the  immovability  of  a  judge,  and  Nora  had  to  pick 
up  her  own  arrows  and  select  her  own  targets.  She  had  been 
so  accustomed  to  his  attentions,  he  seemed  always  to  have  such 
an  intuitive  knowledge  of  her  movements,  which  were  the 
guide  of  his  own, — that  she  felt  as  if  a  vital  ligament  were 


A   SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  163 

severed,  and  a  part  of  herself  taken  away.  She  did  not  realize 
her  dependence  on  his  companionship  for  enjoyment,  till  she 
was  deprived  of  it,  and,  worst  of  all,  by  her  own  folly.  She 
had  not  intended  to  wound  his  sensibility,  she  did  not  know 
what  she  did  mean,  but  the  wound  was  made,  and  the  Indian 
leech  had  no  balm  to  heal  it. 

Unwilling  to  remain  in  his  sight,  since  he  would  not  join 
her,  she  passed  through  the  gate,  shooting  the  arrow  before 
her,  then  trying  to  overtake  it.  She  shot  it  on  one  side  and 
the  other,  making  such  devious  traces  it  was  difficult  for  her 
to  find  her  way  into  the  main  path.  As  she  was  looking  round, 
uncertain  in  which  direction  to  turn,  she  perceived  a  man 
skulking  in  a  thicket  of  trees  skirting  the  river.  He  was  too 
far  from  her  to  discern  his  features,  but  the  red  jacket,  blue 
trousers,  and  long  black  hair  corresponded  with  Robert's  de 
scription  of  the  child-robber,  and  her  blood  ran  cold  at  the 
thought.  It  would  not  be  quite  so  easy  to  carry  her  off  as 
the  infant,  but  there  was  no  knowing  but  he  might  take  a 
fancy  to  her,  and  she  was  not  pleased  with  the  idea.  What 
was  her  joy  when  she  beheld  the  wampum  belt  of  Tuscarora 
gleaming  through  the  foliage,  giving  her  the  consciousness  of 
protection  and  safety.  She  ran  to  meet  him,  and  laying  her 
hand  on  his  powerful  arm,  pointed  to  the  figure  that  was  re 
ceding  from  her  view. 

"  The  ruffian  I"  she  whispered.  "  Do  you  not  see  him  ? 
There — there.  He  is  gone." 

The  Indian's  eye  gleamed  like  burning  coals,  and  he  in 
stinctively  tightened  his  wampum  girdle. 

"I  saw  him — I  saw  him,"  he  muttered  through  his  shut 
teeth,  "  and  I  shall  know  him  a  thousand  years  hence — I  will 
watch  him  the  livelong  day.  Say  nothing  of  this  to  the  mo 
ther  of  the  young  eaglet,  for  the  eye  of  the  hunter  is  open — 
and  she  might  tremble  for  naught." 

"  But  you  have  no  weapon,  gallant  savage/'  said  Nora, 
"and  the  villain,  you  know,  is  armed." 


164  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"Lend  me  that  bow  and  quiver  till  I  reach  my  cabin," 
cried  the  Indian;  taking  the  light  instrument  in  his  sinewy 
hand. 

"But  this  is  a  child's  plaything,"  said  Nora,  smiling; 
"what  can  my  great  brother  do  with  this?" 

"  The  sling  of  the  shepherd  boy  was  more  powerful  than 
the  giant's  spear,"  he  replied;  "you  shall  see  what  I  can  do." 

Taking  one  of  the  slender  arrows  and  fitting  it  to  the  airy 
bow,  he  raised  it  levcl'with  his  eye  and  drew  back  the  elastic 
string. 

"  The  arrow  shall  pierce  the  summit  of  you  leafless  tree. 
It  shall  sever  the  frail  splinter  which  the  lightning  bolt  has 
left  shivering  there." 

The  arrow  flew — flew  to  the  summit  of  the  blasted  oak,  and 
the  tall  splinter  that  cut  the  sky,  like  a  broken  knife,  shivered 
and  fell. 

"  Think  you  it  would  not  make  the  heart-strings  quiver, 
with  an  aim  as  sure  as  that?"  asked  the  practised  hunter, 
gratified  at  Nora's  admiring  glance. 

"  You  must  teach  me  to  shoot,  Ninirod  of  the  woods,  and  I 
will  furnish  you  with  a  hundred  beaver  skins,  and  the  fur  of 
twice  as  many  bears  and  wolves." 

"I  go  to  search  for  the  track  of  the  bear  or  the  wolf.  The 
needle  is  lighter  than  the  hunter's  bow,  and  becometh  better  a 
young  maiden's  hand." 

"  Even  the  savage  rebukes  my  wild  and  untamed  spirit," 
mused  Nora,  as  he  strode  away,  with  majestic  steps  that  left 
no  echo  on  the  ear.  "He  has  fashioned  himself  after  the 
model  of  the  white  man,  and  of  course  lost  much  of  his  native 
majesty.  I  wish  I  were  a  real  Indian  squaw,  free  to  wander 
all  day  in  the  forest,  or  to  float  in  my  bark  canoe  on  the 
roaring  stream.  Then  I  should  not  always  be  offending  the 
proprieties  of  life.  I  wish  I  were  either  one  thing  or  another, 
not  the  nondescript  thing  I  am,  with  the  heart  of  a  woman  and 
the  head  of  a  wild-cat.  The  next  book  on  Natural  History 


A   SEQUEL  TO   LINDA.  165 

that  appears,  I  expect  to  flourish  in  it,  under  the  head  of  a 
new  and  distinct  species." 

Nora  was  quite  subdued  the  remainder  of  the  day,  for  there 
was  a  weight  on  her  heart  that  robbed  it  of  its  specific  levity. 
Julia  was  sad  because  Robert  suffered.  He  had  retired  to  his 
own  apartment,  in  which  aunt  Judy  occasionally  went  in  and 
came  out  with  consequential  air.  Linda  was  anxious  too  from 
the  same  cause,  and  in  addition  nervous  apprehensions  for  her 
child  made  her  start  at  the  sound  of  a  shutting  door  or  an 
entering  footstep.  Never  had  she  felt  so  depressed  at  the 
thought  of  Roland's  absence,  or  so  solicitous  about  his  own 
safety.  The  sudden  danger  that  had  threatened  her  infant 
made  her  feel  the  insecurity  of  every  blessing,  and  every  link 
in  the  electric  chain  that  passed  round  her  heart  participated 
in  the  shock. 

Thus  passed  several  days.  The  inflammation  of  Robert's 
arm,  though  yielding  to  the  skill  of  his  Indian  leech,  kept 
him  a  prisoner,  or  perhaps  he  secluded  himself  from  choice ; 
and  Tuscarora  said,  "  It  was  good :  for  quiet  was  the  nurse  of 
strength."  He  had  told  Nora,  "  that  the  wild  beast  kept  at 
bay,  but  the  hunter's  eye  was  still  open,"  and  she  obeyed  his 
injunction  of  silence  on  the  subject. 

It  was  while  Rosavilla  was  in  this  drooping  state  that  it 
was  enlivened  by  the  appearance  of  Aristides  Longwood,  who 
went  on  his  unspotted  but  eccentric  career,  just  as  he  did 
three  years  ago.  His  home  was  in  the  house  of  Linda,  but 
he  radiated  from  it,  coming  back  at  will,  sure  of  a  joyous 
welcome.  Sometimes  he  taught,  several  months  at  a  time,  a 
small  school,  similar  to  the  one  which  gave  him  Linda  for  a 
pupil;  but,  he  assured  her,  that  as  soon  as  Walton  was  old 
enough  to  profit  by  his  instructions,  he  should  devote  himself 
exclusively  to  him.  He  had  already  made  a  phrenological 
chart  of  his  head,  as  a  guide  in  his  plan  of  education. 


160  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 


CHAPTER  X. 

is  this  very  lively  and  charming  young  lady,"  said 
Aristides,  gazing  with  a  pleasant  smile  on  Nora's  blooming 
face,  after  having  received  her  cordial  greeting,  "  the  little 
frolicsome  child" — 

"  Who  dared  to  steal  behind  your  desk,  and  drop  chestnut 
burrs  in  your  classical  locks,  and  commit  a  thousand  other 
audacities,  which  I  trust  you  have  forgotten/'  interrupted 
Nora,  "  and  forgiven  too." 

"'Tis  easier  for  the  generous  to  forgive  'than  for  offence  to 
ask  it/  as  Thomson  sensibly  remarks,"  replied  Aristides; 
"  but  I  fear,  puella  formosa,  if  we  recur  to  the  days  that  are 
past,  I  shall  suffer  more  than  yourself.  Methinks  your 
memory  might  address  the  quondam  pedagogue : 

'  I'll  have  theo,  as  our  rare  monsters  are, 
Painted  upon  a  pole,  and  underwrit, 
Here  may  you  see  the  tyrant/ — 

As  Shakspeare  pointedly  affirms." 

"  Oh !  no,  Mr.  Longwood,  I  am  inexpressibly  grateful  for 
every  tap  of  the  ruler  on  my  rebellious  brains.  I  have  no 
doubt  it  stinted  the  growth  of  many  a  noxious  weed.  So 
deep  was  my  reverence  of  your  wisdom,  {  that  even  in  your 
chidings  I  found  grace  and  favour/  as  Desdemona  pathetically 
observes." 

Linda,  though  she  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  inimitable 
humour  of  her  manner,  looked  anxiously  at  Aristides,  fearing 
he  might  be  displeased,  meek  and  gentle  as  he  was ;  but  he 
smiled  benignantly  on  the  merry  maiden,  whose  spirits  re 
bounded  from  the  weight  that  had  oppressed  them  with  the 
elasticitv  of  whalebone. 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  167 

"  How  young  you  look,  Mr.  Aristides  !"  slie  said,  in  quite  a 
glow  of  sincerity;  "I  never  saw  any  one  so  greatly  improved. 
You  must  have  discovered  the  fountain  of  perpetual  youth/' 

"  Nay,  maiden  of  the  pleasant  tongue,  I  feel  the  time  ap 
proaching  when  the  l  wheel  may  be  broken  at  the  cistern/  as 
Solomon  warningly  utters.  I  am  no  longer  young,  and  '  age 
is  dark  and  unlovely/  as  Ossian  most  sadly  remarks.  But 
time,  though  it  may  sprinkle  with  frost  the  once  brown  hair, 
and  darken  the  windows  of  sight,  cannot  touch  with  hoariness 
the  youth  of  the  soul.  ( Its  snow  cannot  fall  on  the  bloom  of 
the  heart/  as  an  anonymous  poet  sweetly  has  sung." 

The  delicate  and  spiritual  loveliness  of  Julia  attracted  his 
poetic  gaze.  His  imagination,  ever  on  the  wing  for  beautiful 
similitudes,  compared  her  to  all  that  is  fair  and  fleeting;  and 
as  he,  in  his  transparent  simplicity,  usually  laid  bare  his 
thoughts,  he  addressed  her  in  strains  of  the  tenderest  admira 
tion  : — 

"Thou  remindest  me,  oh,  virgo  purissima!  of  the  lily  of 
the  field,  to  which  our  Saviour  so  touchingly  alludes — of  the 
snow-flakes  of  your  northern  clime  :  for  they  tell  me  you  were 
born,  like  me,  under  the  shadow  of  the  Granite  Hills.  May 
the  soft  gales  of  the  South  blow  gently  on  thee,  film  formosa;" 
then,  forgetting  that  he  was  addressing  her,  he  added,  in  an 
unconscious  soliloquy : 

" ( The  bloom  of  opening  flowers,  unsullied  beauty, 
Softness,  and  sweetest  innocence  she  wears, 
And  looks  like  nature  in  the  world's  first  spring,' — 

as  Howe  has  charmingly  expressed." 

At  this  moment  the  nurse  introduced  the  little  "Walton, 
much  to  the  relief  of  Julia,  who  knew  not  how  to  reply  to 
this  remarkable  burst  of  admiration.  She  had  none  of  the 
chain-lightning  of  wit  and  merriment  that  flashed  so  dazzllngly 
yet  harmlessly  from  Nora's  lips. 

The  love  which  Aristides  bore  the  child  was  affecting  to 


1G8  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

witness.  It  possessed  all  the  purity  and  tenderness  wbicK 
characterized  his  affection  for  Linda,  blended  with  a  worship 
as  deep  as  that  which  moved  the  Eastern  magi  to  bring  their 
costly  offerings  to  the  Babe  of  the  manger.  He  looked  upon 
it  as  the  manifestation  of  ideal  innocence  and  beauty — as  the 
"nfant  incarnation  of  all  the  beatitudes.  It  was  his  chief 
delight  to  cradle  it  in  his  arms  while  it  slept,  and  watch  for 
hours  its  tranquil  slumbers.  He  would  bend  over  it  with  the 
most  intense  delight,  press  with  the  softest  touch  its  velvet 
cheek,  inhale  its  pure,  fragrant  breath,  then,  lifting  his  deeply- 
set  gray  eyes  to  heaven,  in  silent  prayer,  twinkle  away  the 
starting  tear,  and  draw  the  little  innocent  closer  to  his  loving 
heart.  No  words  could  speak  his  horror  and  indignation 
when  Linda  told  him  of  the  attempted  robbery  of  the  child. 

"  Oh !  vulpa  cru-delissima !"  he  exclaimed,  raising  his 
trembling  hands,  "  oh !  agnus  dei,  guard  this  little  lamb  :  '  of 
such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven/  Thy  own  blessed  lips  have 
sweetly  declared.  But  fear  not,  filia  leata,"  turning  to 
Linda,  with  unutterable  tenderness  and  solemnity,  " l  He  will 
give  his  angels  charge  concerning  thee/  and  thine  also,  for 
thou  art  of  the  household  of  faith." 

The  arrival  of  the  simple-hearted,  the  learned,  the  eccentric 
Aristides  was  well-timed,  and  brought  back  the  sunshine 
which  was  for  a  while  obscured.  Robert  was  pronounced 
convalescent  by  his  Indian  physician,  and  the  freedom  of  the 
house  restored  to  him.  Henry,  who  was  enchanted  with 
Aristides,  threw  off  the  unnatural  coldness  which  had  chilled 
for  a  while  his  genial  manners ;  and  Nora  was  herself  again. 
They  had  neither  of  them  sought  a  reconciliation,  but  they 
were  apparently  friends.  Henry  was  incapable  of  cherishing 
vindictive  feelings  against  any  one ;  and  he  forgave  Nora  for 
the  wantonness  which  had  so  deeply  wounded,  but  he  resolved 
never  again  to  expose  himself  to  a  similar  bosom-stab.  If 
nature  had  denied  her  a  heart,  perhaps  she  was  not  to  blame. 
He  had  seen  people  trample  on  flowers,  and  wonder  to  see 


A   SEQUEL   TO  LINDA.  169 

them  fade.  They  would  not  have  felt  so  light  a  tread.  Why 
should  flowers  have  more  sensibility  than  themselves  ?  Nora 
crushed  the  blossoms  of  his  heart  as  unthinkingly.  She  pro 
bably  judged  him  by  herself.  Because  she  could  not  feel,  she 
doubted  the  existence  of  sensibility;  like  the  king  of  Siam 
who  disbelieved  the  formation  of  ice,  because  his  southern 
majesty  had  never  beheld  the  phenomena  of  colder  climes. 
It  was  foolish  in  him  to  be  angry.  He  and  Nora  might  be 
very  good  friends ;  she  was  certainly  an  amusing  companion ; 
but  heaven  forbid  he  should  ever  think  of  her  again  in  a 
nearer  and  dearer  association  !  So  he  laughed  and  talked 
with  her  as  usual,  and  thought  himself  disenchanted.  He 
could  have  out-  Solomoned  Solomon  himself  in  his  estimate  of 
woman's  vanity  of  vanities. 

Linda  was  true  to  the  promise  she  had  given  Robert,  never 
to  renew  the  persuasion  which  had  so  agitated  and  distressed 
him.  But  she  could  not  help  watching  with  painful  solicitude 
his  intercourse  with  Julia,  to  see  if  the  day-spring  of  love 
were  not  dawning  on  its  coldness.  But  while  she  observed 
with  gratitude  and  joy  an  apparently  growing  interest  in 
Julia,  she  felt  as  if  he  were  estranged  from  her.  She  could 
not  define  in  what  the  difference  consisted;  but  he  was  not 
the  same.  His  words  were  as  kind  and  gentle,  but  they 
seemed  cold  to  her  warm,  sisterly  heart.  Assured  that  Robert 
loved  her  as  a  fond  brother  loves,  she  thought  not  of  repress 
ing  her  own  pure  affection,  and,  now  it  was  exalted  by  grati 
tude,  it  assumed  a  deeper,  holier  character.  When  he  was  ill 
und  feverish,  she  would  sit  down  by  him,  and  bathe  his  hot 
brow  and  burning  hands  with  the  most  tender  assiduity;  but 
he  shrunk  so  nervously  from  the  gentle  appliance,  thanking  hsr, 
yet  entreating  her  to  leave  him,  that,  convinced  her  attentions 
were  oppressive,  she  transferred  to  others  the  ministrations 
she  would  gladly  have  rendered.  And  now  he  was  with 
them  once  more,  with  no  traces  of  his  illness  but  the  light 
in  which  his  arm  was  suspended,  and  which  constantly 


170  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

reminded  her  of  her  debt  of  gratitude,  her  spirit  hovered 
round  him  with  watching  solicitude,  grieved  at  the  inexplica 
ble  something  that  repelled  its  advances.  She  wanted  him  to 
love  Julia,  but  not  to  deprive  her  of  the  regard  which  she 
prized  next  to  Roland's  wedded  love.  Oh !  had  she  seen  him 
that  night,  when,  prostrate  before  his  God,  with  bitter  tears 
and  agonizing  throes  he  prayed  for  strength  to  subdue  his 
unconquerable  love !  Had  she  seen  him  wrestling  with  the 
powers  of  darkness,  with  weapons  drawn  from  heaven's  ar 
mory,  till  heart  and  flesh  failed,  and  unseen  angels  came  and 
ministered  to  him !  But  though  the  night  storm  may  call  up 
the  mountain  billows  of  the  deep  till  they  dash  against  the 
skies,  and  sprinkle  them  with  wrathful  foam,  they  may  smile 
with  glassy  smoothness  in  the  morning  sunbeams.  The  sur 
face  is  calm — and  men  talk  of  the  unruffled  sea.  Linda  saw 
not  the  traces  of  warfare  on  Robert's  marble  brow.  The 
peace  of  heaven  seemed  resting  there. 

Imperceptibly  a  shade  gathered  over  the  affectionate  fami 
liarity  of  her  manners.  She  often  refrained  from  calling  him 
"  dear  Robert,"  when  her  heart  glowed  on  her  lips,  because 
his  glance  came  to  her  like  the  rays  of  a  distant  star.  She 
did  not  take  his  hand,  as  she  had  formerly  done,  when  she 
greeted  him  in  the  morning,  or  bade  him  the  evening  adieu. 
Thus  she  unconsciously  assisted  him  in  the  sacrifice  he  had 
resolved  to  make. 

Julia,  in  the  mean  time,  was  the  companion  of  many  an  hour 
of  social  intercourse  from  which  Linda  purposely  withdrew 
herself.  He  read  aloud,  and  Julia  was  never  weary  of  listen 
ing  to  his  deep-toned,  musical  voice.  Genius  borrowed  new  in 
spiration  from  the  medium  through  which  it  reached  her  heart. 
She  could  listen  forever  to  his  reading;  yet  when  he  talked, 
she  wondered  that  she  ever  cared  to  hear  the  sentiments  of 
others.  She  had  never,  never  felt  so  happy.  She  lived  in 
the  present.  No  matter  what  the  future  might  be,  there  was 
a  blissful  now.  Robert  thought  of  her — watched  for  her  coin- 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  171 

fort — exerted  himself  to  interest  her — sought  the  seat  at  her 
side,  and  gave  her  his  arm,  in  walking  among  the  evergreen 
shades.  Every  one  said,  "  How  much  better  she  looked ! 
what  a  brilliant  colour  every  evening  kindled  up  her  cheek ! 
what  deepening  radiance  in  her  heavenly  blue  eyes !  When 

hey  told  her  this  she  smiled,  and  put  her  hand  on  her  heart. 

t  was  an  involuntary  motion.  It  might  express  pleasure  or 
pain.  It  might  be  the  last,  from  the  very  excess  of  the 
first. 

"  I  do  not  like  that  bright  colour  on  her  cheek,"  Aristidcs 
would  say,  his  eyes  softening  with  prophetic  sadness ;  "  it 
always  comes  just  before  the  sunset  fades,  as  if  she  had  caught 
the  burning  rays;  I  fear  the  life  is  leaving  her  heart  that 
glows  so  brilliantly  there — '  Early  bright,  transient,  chaste  as 
morning  dew/  as  Young  beautifully  observes.  The  damsel  is 
modest,  and  fair  to  look  upon ;  but  the  rose  blushes  the  sweet 
est  when  the  canker-worm  is  gnawing  in  the  calyx. 

"  '  That  same  flower  which  blooms  to-day, 
To-morrow  may  be  dying/ 

as  Herrick  tenderly  expresses." 

One  evening, — and  it  happened  to  be  a  dark  and  stormy 
one, — Julia  was  left  alone  with  Robert.  This  beautiful  clime 
is  not  exempt  from  clouds  and  tempests,  and  they  come  with 
a  suddenness  and  power  unknown  in  colder  latitudes.  Linda 
retired  to  her  own  room,  unable  to  call  the  smile  to  her  lip, 
when  every  stormy  gust  that  swept  by  the  window  reminded 
her  that  Roland  might  be  tossing  on  the  billowy  main.  She 
had  not  heard  from  him  since  his  departure  from  New  Orleans, 
in  the  Eagle,  bound  for  Liverpool.  There  had  not  been  time 
for  communication,  unless  through  some  meeting  vessel;  but 
still  her  heart  craved  for  tidings  of  his  safety  with  importunate 
solicitude.  When  these  yearnings  were  strongest  she  loved  to 
be  alone,  that  she  might  think  exclusively  of  her  absent  hus 
band,  or,  with  her  child  clasped  to  her  bosom,  talk  to  it  of  the 


172  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

father,  whose  brave,  protecting  spirit  seemed  ever  hovering 
round  them. 

Nora  attempted  to  drown  the  voice  of  the  storm-king  in  the 
gay  notes  of  the  piano,  to  which  she  actually  led  the  patient 
Aristides,  telling  him  that  she  could  not  sing  without  the 
inspiration  of  his  presence, — and  Henry  followed,  saying  he 
would  not  be  separated  from  him.  There  was  quite  a  merry 
trio  round  the  instrument,  for,  in  the  interludes  of  music,  Nora 
vied  with  Aristides  in  the  number  and  brilliancy  of  his  quota 
tions  ;  and  Henry,  in  whose  mind  the  flowers  of  classic  taste 
had  been  bountifully  nurtured  by  Castalian  dews,  scattered 
them  profusely  at  the  social  banquet. 

Let  us  glance  into  the  three  rooms  in  which  our  friends  are 
seated,  each  illumined  by  a  magnificent  light-wood  blaze. 

Let  us  paint  them  in  separate  pictures.  Linda  sits  in  a  low 
rocking-chair  at  the  fireside,  with  the  sleeping  Walton  cradled 
in  her  arms.  The  night  is  cool,  and  a  sky-blue  cashmere 
dressing-gown,  faced  with  down,  is  thrown  loosely  round  her. 
The  flowing  sleeves  are  turned  slightly  back  at  the  wrists,  par 
tially  revealing  an  arm  fair  and  symmetrical  as  the  Grecian 
slave's.  It  is  also  open  at  the  throat,  and  the  cygnet's  white 
and  graceful  neck  is  not  more  faultlessly  beautiful  than  Linda's, 
round  which  her  locks,  glistening  in  the  fire-glow,  aie  care 
lessly  straying.  She  bends  down  over  her  slumbeiing  in 
fant.  She  presses  sweet  kisses  on  its  cherub  lips,  and  blesses 
it  in  the  name  of  its  absent  father.  She  starts  as  the  wind 
rushes  by  on  sounding  wing,  and  looking  wistfully  through  the 
curtains  at  the  drifting  clouds,  prays  the  God  of  the  ocean  to 
guard  from  danger  the  bark  of  the  mariner.  Now  and  then 
a  bright,  warm  tear  falls  on  the  rosy  cheek  of  Walton, — a  tear 
do  pure  that  angels  might  kiss  it  away. 

Oh,  lovely  young  wife  and  tender  mother !  we  love  to  lin 
ger  on  so  fair  a  picture.  If  our  eyes  were  anointed  as  the 
ancient  prophets  were,  we  have  no  doubt  we  should  see  a  gar 
land  of  celestial  spirits  twining  round  thcc,  with  snow-white, 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  173 

glory-tinted  wings,  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  in  thy  heart, 
and  surely  "  liveried  angels  lacquey  thee." 

How  different  the  scene  of  which  Nora  is  the  central  figure. 
True  daughter  of  earth,  she  personifies  its  blooming  joys  and 
sparkling  pleasures,  in  her  fresh  elastic  'form  and  mirth-ex 
citing  countenance.  Everything  about  her  is  in  keeping  with 
the  individuality  of  her  character.  The  crimson  adornments 
of  her  dress,  and  the  crimson  japonica  glowing  in  the  black 
ness  of  her  hair,  seems  as  much  a  part  of  herself,  as  the  jetty 
lustre  of  her  eyes,  and  the  electric  brightness  of  her  smile. 
How  admirably  the  dark -grey  garments  of  Aristides,  his  dark- 
grey  eyes,  and  thin,  decided  features  relieve  this  warm,  bril 
liant  figure,  and  place  it  in  bold,  yet  charming  relief!  and 
Henry's  fair,  intellectual  face,  light  locks,  and  eyes  beaming 
with  Attic  fire,  set  off  the  picture  like  a  frame  of  burnished 
gold. 

There  is  one  more  to  look  at.  It  is  like  turning  from  a  gor 
geous  painting  to  a  soft,  rich  inezzotinto.  Every  thing  has  a 
subdued  tint.  The  hearth-light  has  softened  into  harmony  with 
the  moonlight  lustre  of  the  lamps.  The  outlines  of  Julia's 
slender  form  meet  in  the  soft,  undecided,  cloudy  hue  of  the 
dress  she  wears.  She  is  seated  so  that  a  shadow  falls  upon 
her,  quenching  the  golden  gleams  of  her  hair,  and  leaving  a 
mellow,  brownish  shade  in  harmony  with  the  pensive  beauty 
of  her  face.  All  the  light  seems  to  have  gathered  round  the 
brow  of  Robert,  who  sits  near  the  lamp  with  a  book  in  his 
hand,  from  which  he  has  been  reading.  It  quivers  in  a  halo 
above  his  dark  hair,  and  flows  in  silver  rills  along  a  figure  which 
might  vie  in  symmetry  with  the  Delphic  gods.  The  book 
hangs  listlessly  in  one  hand,  his  forehead  is  pressed  on  the  other. 
He  hears  the  wind  sighing  through  the  tall  magnolias.  Julia 
hears  only  the  sigh  which  involuntarily  heaves  the  bosom  ot 
Robert.  He  lays  down  the  book,  and  takes  the  seat  vacant  at 
her  side.  Ever  since  the  evening  when  Linda  pleaded  with 
him  so  earnestly  in  Julia's  behalf,  he  had  been  arming  himself 
29 


174  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

with  resolution  to  meet  this  moment,  yet  he  trembled  when  it 
was  near. 

"Julia,"  said  he,  in  a  low  and  distinct  voice,  "you  know 
the  history  of  this  passionate,  yet  I  trust  regenerated  heart. 
You  know  the  hopes  which  were  blighted,  the  love  which,  find 
ing  no  home  in  another's  bosom,  was  driven  back  to  my  own. 
Your  friendship  and  sympathy  have  been  balm  to  the  anguish 
of  a  crushed  and  wounded  spirit.  I  prize  it  more  than  I  have 
words  to  tell." 

He  paused,  for  his  voice  trembled  from  increasing  emotion. 
Julia  pressed  her  hand  on  her  heart,  to  still  its  wildly-tumul 
tuous  beatings.  All  day  she  had  felt  a  strange  oppression 
there,  as  if  a  girdle  were  tightening  round  her.  Now  she 
wanted  room  to  breathe,  to  feel.  She  panted,  and  a  burning 
rose  suddenly  bloomed  on  her  cheeks. 

"Do  not  let  me  agitate  you  thus,"  continued  he,  pained  by 
the  excess  of  her  agitation,  for  it  made  it  more  difficult  to  mas 
ter  his  own.  "We  have  knelt  beside  each  other,  my  soul's 
sister,  at  the  altar  of  our  Saviour,  and  let  the  remembrance  of 
that  hour  hallow  the  emotions  of  this." 

He  took  her  hand  with  tenderness  and  solemnity,  and  his 
voice  became  steadier,  and  his  purpose  strengthened,  as  he  felt 
its  quick,  throbbing  pulses,  its  gentle,  relying  touch. 

"I  will  not  deceive  you,  Julia.  I  could  not,  to  secure  my 
soul's  salvation,  bring  to  your  spotless  purity,  your  guileless 
simplicity,  a  false  and  hollow  offering.  The  freshness  and 
bloom  of  my  heart  is  gone.  Yours  is  in  all  its  dewy  spring 
time.  It  is  worthy  the  first  and  warmest  affections,  not  the 
aded  relics  of  an  unvalued  love.  Yes,  Julia,  you  are  lovely 
nd  pure  as  an  angel,  and  had  I  met  you  in  an  earlier  hour,  I 
might  have  loved  you  as  you  merit  to  be  loved ;  but  now" — 

The  hand  he  held  grew  suddenly  as  cold  as  snow,  but  he 
clasped  it  with  a  firmer  pressure,  and  his  words,  which  had 
fallen  with  a  measured  cadence,  came  with  rushing  eloquence 
from  his  lips. 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  175 

"  Now,  even  while  I  tell  you  that  if  she,  the  beloved  of  my 
youth,  were  free,  I  could  feel  for  her  all  the  wild  passion  that 
once  desolated  her  life,  and  nearly  destroyed  my  own ;  when  I 
tell  you,  that  under  this  very  roof  I  have  passed  through  strug 
gles  and  conflicts  in  which  I  called  on  the  principalities  and 
powers  of  heaven  to  save  me,  if  you  will  trust  your  happiness 
in  the  keeping  of  one  so  sorely  tempted,  yet  so  divinely 
strengthened,  I  promise  to  watch  over  it  with  as  undying  care 
as  I  would  guard  from  extinguishment  the  flame  of  the  vestal 
temple,  were  I  a  heathen  devotee.  No  !  I  will  not  go  to  a  pro 
fane  source  for  inspiration.  I  will  protect  it  as  I  would  my 
Christian  faith  from  the  hands  of  sacrilege.  I  will  cherish  it 
in  life  as  my  most  sacred  trust,  and  in  death  consign  it  with  my 
last  prayer  to  the  guardianship  of  our  Father  and  our  God." 

She  did  not  speak,  but  she  looked  up  to  him,  as  the  wor 
shipper  looks  to  the  image  of  the  saint  he  adores.  Words 
could  not  express  the  thousand  varying,  yet  blending  feelings 
that  throbbed  in  her  bosom,  and  burned  upon  her  cheek.  Had 
Robert  told  her  that  he  loved  her  as  he  had  loved  Linda,  she 
might  have  bowed  beneath  the  burden  of  too  mighty  a  joy;  but 
the  manner  in  which  he  offered  to  become  the  guardian  of  her 
happiness  was  so  solemn,  so  sad  even,  that  ecstacy  was  chas 
tened  into  awe.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  trembled 
unuttered  on  her  quivering  lips.  She  could  only  press  his 
hand  in  silence,  in  token  that  he  had  not  poured  out  his  soul 
into  ears  of  stone. 

"  Think  not,  presumptuous  as  I  am,"  he  added,  with  a  deep 
relieving  sigh,  a  feeling  of  gratitude  and  triumph,  a  conscious 
liberation  from  the  tempter's  power,  "  that  it  is  your  happiness 
alone  I  consult,  in  asking  for  a  charge  so  dear.  Even  now,  I 
feel  your  saving  influence.  Once  assured  that  you  lean  on 
me,  frail  and  tottering  pillar  as  I  am,  for  support,  I  shall  grow 
strong,  that  I  may  sustain  your  weakness, — and  firm  that  the 
garland  which  entwines  me  may  not  fall  with  me  in  the  dust 
I  do  not  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,  Julia,  with  the  ardour  of 


176  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

youth's  early  passion.  God  knows  I  cannot  do  it;  but  I  ask 
you  to  be  my  companion  in  the  pilgrimage  of  life,  my  guardian 
angel  from  temptation  and  sin,  my  fellow-labourer  in  the  cause 
of  religion  and  humanity,  the  bride  as  well  as  sister  of  my 
soul." 

Borne  down  by  the  intensity  and  weight  of  his  emotions, 
Robert  bowed  his  forehead  on  the  hand  he  now  clasped  in  both 
his  own.  It  was  not  so  much  as  a  wooing  lover  he  bowed 
himself  thus,  as  the  man  humbled  before  his  Maker  and  his 
God. 

"  Oh,  Robert,"  said  Julia,  her  countenance  lighted  up  with 
celestial  joy,  that  shone  like  April  sunbeams,  through  gather 
ing  tears,  "  Oh,  Robert,  I  am  not  worthy  such  an  office ;  but 
I  would  rather  walk  hand  in  hand  with  you,  in  life's  thorniest, 
most  rugged  path,  filling  any  place  in  your  true  and  noble 
heart,  than  reign  unrivalled  queen  of  any  other,  and  dwell  in 
Eden's  bowers." 

As  Robert  listened  to  this  meek,  unqualified  expression  of 
the  most  devoted,  self-annihilating  love,  this  lavish  return  for 
his  poor,  stinted  offering,  he  felt  there  was  something  sublime 
and  elevating  in  being  the  object  of  such  a  generous  worship. 
He  was  not  the  ingrate  that  could  hear  it  unmoved.  He 
clasped  her  to  his  bosom,  with  fervent  gratitude,  and  vowed  to 
consecrate  his  future  life,  next  to  his  God,  to  her.  Perhaps 
Julia  tasted  in  this  moment  the  purest  happiness  that  ever 
glowed  in  the  heart  of  woman, — it  was  so  purified  from  all 
earthly  alloy — so  hallowed  by  their  mutual  hopes  of  heaven. 
Since  she  had  knelt  at  the  altar  with  him  in  the  rural  church, 
and  the  incense  of  his  prayers  had  borne  her  up  to  heaven,  she 
had  felt  united  to  him  by  indissoluble  ties.  She  was  recon 
ciled  to  the  thought  of  an  early  death,  that  she  might  await 
his  coming  in  a  world  of  everlasting  communion.  She 
dreamed  not  of  being  his  companion  on  earth,  but  she  might 
hope  to  be  his  fellow  angel  in  heaven,  where  there  is  <(  neither 
marrying  nor  giving  in  marriage." 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  177 

Now  she  seemed  to  receive  anew  the  gift  of  life.  The  tight, 
metallic  band  that  girdled  her  heart  was  loosened,  and  downy 
folds  of  heavenly  joy  enwrapped  it.  The  shadow  of  an  early 
doom  rolled  away  before  the  rising  sun  of  love.  She  was  not 
destined  to  die  so  young,  when  such  rare  felicity  awaited  her 
on  earth.  God  was  too  lovingly  kind,  too  tenderly  merciful,  to 
raise  her  to  such  a  summit  of  hope,  and  then  plunge  her 
into  the  darkness  of  the  tomb :  that  refuge  of  the  miserable, 
that  goal  of  the  weary  of  life. 

"  Young  as  I  am,"  she  said,  when  the  bewildering  excite 
ment  of  her  feelings  had  subsided,  "I  have  for  years  looked 
forward  to  the  hour  when  the  star  of  my  life  would  set  behind 
the  night-clouds  of  death.  Now  it  beams  like  a  dayspring 
from  on  high.  Oh,  Robert,  I  feel  that  I  shall  live  to  fulfil 
the  holy  mission  you  have  given  me.  If  I  may  not  be  your 
helper  and  companion  in  labour,  I  can  follow  like  Ruth  the 
steps  of  the  reapers,  and  gather  the  grain  that  falls  from  the 
golden  sheaves.  Let  me  find  favour  in  thy  sight,  and  the 
blessing  of  God  will  follow." 

Julia  spoke  with  enthusiasm.  The  manner  in  which 
Robert  had  addressed  her  was  so  different  from  that  by  which 
youth  and  beauty  are  usually  wooed  and  won,  that  their  anti 
cipated  union  on  earth  seemed  only  a  type  of  their  divine 
espousals.  When  she  retired  that  night,  she  was  too  happy 
for  sleep.  She  seemed  walking  in  a  blissful  dream.  The 
voice  of  Nora  sounded  strange  and  harsh,  compared  with  the  soft 
echoes  still  lingering  in  her  ears.  Even  the  lamp-light  looked 
dim  to  the  remembered  rays  of  Robert's  dark-beaming  eyes. 
If  Linda  were  only  near  her,  she  would  pour  into  her  heart 
the  overflowing  tide  of  her  emotions,  for  she  would  sympathize 
with  her,  and  sympathy  in  joy  is  sweeter  even  than  in  sorrow. 
She  sat  up  after  Nora  slept,  wondering  if  Linda  were  awake 
and  would  suffer  her  to  intrude  on  her  retirement.  Her  room 
was  near,  and  yielding  to  an  irresistible  impulse,  she  wrapped 


178  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

herself  in  a  dressing-gown,  and,  gliding  through  the  hall,  tapped 
lightly  at  Linda's  door. 

A  gentle  voice  bade  her  enter.  Linda  was  sitting  as  we 
have  described  her;  but  Walton  slumbered  in  the  crib,  and  she 
was  intent  on  the  pages  of  a  book  on  which  genius  had 
breathed  its  wizard  spell.  She  looked  up  with  surprise,  while 
a  smile  of  welcome  illumined  her  countenance. 

Julia  stood  a  moment,  as  if  hesitating  to  speak  her  errand, 
then  hurrying  forward,  she  knelt  on  the  footstool  at  Linda's 
feet,  and  throwing  her  arms  round  her  neck,  exclaimed  with 
a  burst  of  tears — 

"  Oh !  I  am  so  happy,  so  happy !" 

"  And  Robert  is  happy  too  !"  cried  Linda,  tenderly  embrac 
ing  her.  <f  I  understand  it  all.  And  I — I  could  weep  with 
joy  likewise,  sweet  Julia.  My  fondest  prayer  is  answered." 

She  had  heard  low  and  earnest  voices  in  the  next  room 
the  whole  evening.  She  knew  that  Robert  and  Julia  were 
there  alone,  and  that  the  crisis  of  their  destiny  was  near.  And 
when  Julia  opened  her  door,  with  such  a  radiant  expression  of 
happiness  glorifying  her  face,  even  through  the  soft  mist  of 
bashfulness  that  veiled  it,  she  knew  all  which  Julia  came  to 
tell. 

"  Robert  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,"  she  murmured. 
"  He  has  told  me  all.  I  know  that  I  occupy  but  the  second 
place  in  his  heart.  I  am  content.  I  have  not  capacity  for 
greater  happiness.  I  tremble  now  at  its  wild  excess." 

"Believe  me,  sweetest  Julia,"  said  Linda,  folding  her  more 
closely  in  her  arms,  "whatever  may  have  been  his  boyish 
feelings,  they  can  never  come  between  you  and  your  wedded 
felicity.  If  Robert  has  asked  you  to  be  his  wife,  he  has  done 
it  with  the  solemn  purpose  of  devoting  himself  exclusively  to 
you,  heart,  soul,  and  life.  He  will  love  you  more  and  more, 
to  the  exclusion  of  every  memory  that  is  not  associated  with 
you.  He  will  bless  heaven  with  every  morning  sunbeam  and 
every  evening  shade,  for  having  wafted  hither  the  Northern 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  179 

flower  to  shed  its  fragrance  on  his  Southern  home.  Oh  !  you 
will  both  be  happy, — and  your  happiness  will  not  be  the  sport 
of  every  wind  and  wave,  for  it  is  founded  upon  a  rock, — not 
built  upon  sand.  Oh,  Julia,  it  is  a  blessed  thing  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  Christian — a  Christian  even  in  the  private  walks  of 
life, — how  much  greater  honour  to  be  the  wife  of  a  Christian 
minister — a  Christian  missionary !  Were  I  not  the  happiest 
of  wives,  I  could  almost  envy  you  such  a  glorious  privilege." 
'Ah  !  I  am  so  unworthy  to  enjoy  it." 

"  Depreciate  not  your  own  excellencies.  Had  Robert  searched 
the  wide  world  over,  he  could  not  have  found  one  more  set 
apart  and  holy  for  the  office  than  your  too  humble  and  lowly 
self.  Your  parents  will  surely  sanction  the  union,  for  in  a 
worldly  point  of  view  it  offers  every  advantage  of  wealth  and 
position." 

"  They  are  not  worldly,"  she  answered ;  "  I  am  confident 
they  will  consult  my  happiness  alone.  My  brother  loves  him. 
I  see  no  obstacle.  Dearest  Linda,  teach  me  to  be  grateful,  as 
I  ought." 

And  thus  they  sat,  their  arms  around  each  other,  their 
hearts  more  and  more  closely  drawn  together,  till  the  hour  of 
midnight  sounded  and  warned  them  to  retire. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  next  morning  no  traces  of  the  storm  were  seen,  save  the 
rain-drops  that  glittered  on  the  foliage,  and  here  and  there  a  light 
branch  lying  on  the  ground,  or  a  vine-wreath  loosened  from  the 
frame  it  entwined.  Henry,  to  whom  Robert  the  night  before 
had  told  his  plighted  faith  to  Julia,  rejoiced  at  this  consumma 
tion  of  his  cherished  wishes.  He  had  lately  had  some  secret 
misgivings.  Now,  he  wondered  he  had  even  doubted  Julia's 


180  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

power  to  win  and  wear  a  heart  which  he  believed  entirely 
her  own. 

"  Is  this  little  flutterer  at  rest  now  ?"  he  asked,  laying  his 
hand  on  her  heart.  "  It  has  found  a  home — has  it  not  ?" 

Even  as  lie  spoke,  "Julia  felt  a  sharp  pain,  an  indescribable 
anguish  there,  followed  by  a  deadly  sickness,  and  she  shrank 
back  with  a  low  cry. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  cried,  alarmed  at  her  excessive 
paleness.  "Surely  that  gentle  touch  has  not  hurt  you  I" 

"  Oh  no/'  she  said,  leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "  It 
is  over  now.  A  transient  spasm, — that  is  all." 

"But  that  is  a  great  deal,  Julia.  If  you  are  subject  to 
them,  they  must  be  attended  to.  I  will  send  for  a  physician 
at  once.  Such  things  must  not  be  trifled  with." 

"  I  feel  better  now,  dear  Henry.  I  do  not  think  a  phy 
sician  would  do  me  any  good.  I  am  sure  I  need  no  medicine. 
My  best  physician  is  here." 

The  sudden  glow  on  her  cheek  at  the  entrance  of  Robert 
told  what  physician  she  meant. 

"  Julia  is  not  well,  Robert,"  said  Henry ;  "  I  insist  upon 
placing  her  in  the  doctor's  hands." 

"Not  well !"  repeated  Robert,  looking  at  her  brilliant  colour. 
Julia  smiled,  and  the  smile  deepened  the  illusion. 

"  If  you  had  seen  her  a  few  moments  ago,"  continued  Henry, 
"you  would  not  have  recognised  her." 

"You  know  I  was  always  subject  to  fainting-fits,  brother. 
A  physician  could  not  change  my  constitution.  But  I  am 
getting  strong  and  well  now.  See,  is  not  this  the  glow  of 
health?"  and,  taking  one  of  Henry's  hands,  she  pressed  it  play 
fully  against  the  warm  roses  of  her  cheeks. 

Robert  could  not  associate  the  idea  of  sickness  with  her  pre 
sent  bright  and  smiling  aspect.  She  had  never  looked  so  well. 
The  love  which  she  had  so  long  hidden  in  her  heart  came  up 
from  its  innermost  shrine,  and  sparkled  with  electric  brightness 
on  her  face.  The  soft  cloud  of  languor  that  often  rested  upon 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  181 

it  was  dispersed,  and  Robert  wondered  as  he  gazed  at  the  ex 
ceeding  brilliancy  of  her  beauty.  It  is  not  strange  that  he 
thought  Henry's  fears  were  groundless,  or  that  Henry,  assured 
by  Julia's  repeated  assertion  that  she  now  felt  perfectly  well, 
better  than  ever  she  had  done  in  her  life,  should  yield  his  judg 
ment  at  last,  and  believe  that  he  was  foolishly  apprehensive. 

Once  again  in  the  course  of  the  day,  Julia  felt  the  same  in 
describable  anguish  at  her  heart,  followed  by  the  same  deadly 
faintness,  and  a  cold  dew  came  out  on  her  forehead.  Was  it 
the  dew  of  the  night  of  death  ?  She  was  alone  in  her  room. 
Had  Robert  seen  her  at  that  moment,  he  would  not  have 
breathed  till  he  had  summoned  a  physician, — but  the  anguish 
passed  and  the  faintness  passed ;  and  wiping  off  the  chill  drops 
of  perspiration,  she  seemed  to  emerge  from  darkness  into 
light.  She  rose  and  ministered  to  herself.  Linda  had  pre 
pared  her  a  soothing  mixture,  which  she  kept  in  her  own  room, 
and  she  immediately  felt  its  renovating  influence.  She  would 
not  speak  of  it,  since  it  had  vanished  of  itself.  There  was  no 
need  of  exciting  unnecessary  alarm.  If  she  continued  to  have 
such  strange  attacks,  she  would  be  willing  to  receive  medical 
counsel  and  aid, — but  not  to-day.  To-morrow  it  might  not  be 
needed. 

She  was  right.     It  was  not  needed  on  the  morrow. 

That  evening  they  all  gathered  in  one  room,  and  every  soul 
seemed  tuned  in  concert.  There  were  no  prima  donnas  pre 
sent;  but  the  three  young  females  were  gifted  with  sweet  and 
cultivated  voices,  and  Robert  and  Henry  both  sang,  if  not 
artistically,  with  great  taste  and  feeling.  Aristides  was  pas 
sionately  fond  of  music.  He  would  sit,  with  his  chin  propped 
upon  his  hand,  his  eyes  half  closed,  his  ear  inclined  to  a  gen 
tle  angle,  apparently  involved  in  a  blissful  revery — 

" '  Music,  oh  !  how  faint,  how  weak, 
Language  fades  before  thy  spell' — 

as  Mr.  Longwood  melodiously  observes,"  cried  Nora,  keeping 
time  to  Linda's  charming  notes. 


182  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"  I  only  borrowed  the  words  of  the  poet,  oh,  virgo  hilaria !" 
answered  Aristides;  "but  they  speak  the  language  of  my 
soul — 

"  '  The  man  who  has  no  music  in  his  soul, 
Is  fit  for  treason,  stratagem,  and  spoils' — 

as  Shakspeare  emphatically  declares." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Longwood,  I  should  not  think  a  gentleman  of 
your  exquisite  originality  would  quote  so  hackneyed  a  phrase. 
It  would  do  for  me,  who  have  so  slender  a  stock  of  ideas,  as  I 
myself  pertinently  remark." 

"  Thou  hast  a  pleasant  wit,  damsel,  and  I  love  the  merry 
glance  of  thine  eye.  But  the  words  of  Shakspeare  can  never 
grow  old  by  usage.  They  are  the  oracles  of  nature,  and  will 
forever  breathe  its  spirit.  The  same  stars  shine  night  after 
night,  and  they  still  shine  in  everlasting  youth.  Like  their 
great  Maker,  they  know  neither  variableness  nor  change.  But 
thou  art  young,  and  fond  of  novelty, — 

" ( Variam  et  mutabile  semper 
Faemina' — 

as  Virgil  pointedly  hath  sung." 

While  Aristides  and  Nora  thus  cut  each  other  with  diamond 
words,  a  trio  was  clustered  near  the  piano,  and  Linda,  who 
had  for  the  first  time  persuaded  Julia  to  take  the  music-seat, 
held  up  her  hand,  with  a  smile,  imposing  silence  on  one  who 
seldom  owned  its  spell.  Julia  scarcely  ever  sang,  except  when 
alone.  An  unconquerable  diffidence  sealed  her  lips,  and  pal 
sied  her  fairy  fingers.  Now,  when  Robert  asked  to  sing,  she 
obeyed,  as  if  under  the  influence  of  an  enchanter's  wand,  and 
Henry  marvelled  from  what  secret  fountain  the  rills  of  melody 
came  gushing  forth.  She  chose  her  mother's  favourite — 

"  Hark !  he  cometh,  softly  stealing." 

Tt  was  a  simple,  pathetic  air,  and  the  touching  words  harmo 
nized  well  with  the  soft  and  thrilling  strains.     Every  note  she 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  183 

breathed  her  voice  swelled  clearer  and  sweeter;  and  when  she 
had  lingered  on  the  last  till  it  died  away  almost  imperceptibly 
on  the  ear,  the  sound  of  a  falling  feather  might  almost  have 
been  heard  in  the  deep  stillness  of  the  room. 

This  sudden  and  unexpected  gush  of  harmony  seemed  like 
inspiration. 

"Why,  Julia!  what  has  inspired  you  to-night?  If  it  were 
the  last  song  you  ever  expected  to  sing,  you  could  not  have 
thrown  more  soul  and  feeling  into  it,"  exclaimed  Henry;  "I 
never  heard  you  sing  like  that  before." 

"  The  last  song,  Henry  I"  repeated  she,  looking  up  with  an 
expression,  which  those  around  her  never  forgot;  "the  last! 
that  is  such  a  sad  word." 

There  were  other  songs  and  blither  strains,  but  Julia  sang 
no  more.  At  the  close  of  the  evening  she  was  left  alone  with 
Robert.  It  was  only  for  a  few  moments,  for  he  urged  her  to 
retire,  observing  a  languor  in  her  eyes  that  indicated  the  need 
of  rest.  As  he  accompanied  her  to  the  door,  and  bade  her 
good-night,  she  involuntarily  paused,  and  her  hand  lingered  in 
the  clasp  of  his. 

"  Shall  I  see  you  in  the  morning  ?"  she  asked,  looking  wist 
fully  in  his  face. 

"  I  trust  so,  dear  Julia.  We  know  not  what  a  night  may 
bring  forth;  but,  relying  on  God's  love,  we  may  hope  the  mor 
row's  sunbeams  will  unite  us  once  more." 

"  But  is  not  this  all  a  dream  ?  and  shall  I  not,  on  awaken 
ing,  find  it  so?"  said  she,  still  lingering.  "Oh,  Robert, 
last  night  I  felt  as  if  immortality  were  begun  on  earth; 
now,  nothing  seems  so  fleeting,  so  unreal  as  my  own  exist 
ence.  Do  not  smile  at  my  weakness,  but  I  fear  to  lose  my 
hold  of  your  hand,  lest  you  vanish,  and  I  behold  your  face  no 
more." 

"You  feel  the  nervous  depression  always  following  too 
great  excitement,"  he  answered;  and,  putting  his  arm  round 
her,  he  walked  with  her  to  the  end  of  the  passage  which  icu 


184  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

to  her  room.  "  Every  thing  will  seem  real  to-morrow.  The 
shadows  will  all  pass  away,  and  the  peace  of  Heaven  dawn  on 
your  soul." 

He  bent  down,  in  the  attitude  of  benediction,  and  kissed 
her  brow. 

"Angels  guard,  and  our  heavenly  Father  bless  you,  Julia," 
and  gently  drawing  away  his  hand  from  her  trembling  clasp, 
he  turned  and  left  her.  His  own  room  was  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  passage.  As  he  entered  it,  he  looked  back,  and 
saw  Julia  standing  on  the  threshold,  as  if  arrested  there  by 
magnetism.  Her  face  was  toward  him,  and  the  brilliant  chan 
delier  that  lighted  the  hall  threw  its  dazzling  rays  in  a  diadem 
round  her  head.  She  seemed  enveloped  in  a  glory,  like  a  pic 
tured  saint;  and  when  she  disappeared  from  his  gaze,  Robert 
felt  as  if  a  visionary,  and  not  an  earthly  form  had  vanished. 

"  Oh,  Julia,"  thought  he,  "  I  may  not  love  thee  with 
earthly  passion;  but  thou  art  worthy  of  a  heavenly  love.  I 
will  bind  thee  to  my  heart,  as  a  shield  from  temptation  and 
guilt,  and  thou  shalt  infuse  thine  own  gentle  warmth  and 
purity  into  its  haunted  cells.  And  if  ever  I  cease  to  guard 
thee  faithfully,  and  cherish  thee  tenderly,  pure  and  loving 
spirit,  may  the  doors  of  my  Father's  mansion  be  closed 
against  me." 

Soon  every  sound  was  hushed,  and  darkness  as  well  as 
silence  rested  on  the  household.  The  night  waned  away,  and 
those  who  slept  were  unconscious  that  an  unbidden  guest  had 
entered, — for  his  footsteps  left  no  echo,  so  softly,  so  stealthily 
he  came,  so  quickly  and  silently  he  fulfilled  his  terrible 
mission. 

When  Nora  awoke,  the  morning  beams  glittered  through 
the  curtains,  which  were  left  in  their  daily  folds  the  evening 
before.  She  released  them  from  the  gilded  hand  that  re 
strained  the  sweeping  drapery,  suffering  it  to  fall  to  the  floor 
that  Julia's  slumbers  might  not  be  disturbed  by  the  full  glare 
of  light.  Her  face  was  turned  toward  the  wall,  so  that  Nora 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  185 

did  not  see  it;  but  she  lay  so  still,  so  tranquil,  that  Nora  imag 
ined  her  sleep  must  be  as  sweet  as  it  was  deep. 

"I  will  let  her  have  her  nap  out,"  said  she  to  herself, 
"  while  I  run  about  in  the  garden  and  whet  the  edge  of  appe 
tite,  as  Aristides  would  sapiently  say." 

Nora  was  no  loiterer  at  the  toilet.  She  donned  her  gar 
ments  with  the  light  fingers  of  a  Cinderella,  and  her  hair 
always  seemed  to  arrange  itself,  as  the  comb  passed  through 
its  waving  length.  As  with  her  usual  skipping  step,  she  went 
to  the  door  and  swung  it  hastily  open,  her  eyes  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Julia's  face,  and  she  stood  a  moment,  as  if  trans 
fixed,  then  uttered  a  shriek  so  wild  and  piercing,  it  rang 
through  the  lofty  hall,  waking  a  thousand  echoes.  Robert, 
who  was  just  leaving  his  room,  which,  as  we  have  said,  was 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  passage,  was  the  first  to  hear  that 
fearful  cry, — the  first  to  follow  the  direction  of  the  almost 
palsied  hand,  that  pointed  to  the  bed.  There  lay  Julia,  as 
coldly,  "  deadly  pale,"  as  the  wintry  snow  of  her  native  clime. 
Her  right  hand  was  pressed  upon  her  heart,  where  the  death- 
dart  had  quivered,  but  no  distortion  of  pain  marred  the  divine 
repose  of  her  features.  One  might  have  thought  she  slept, 
so  still,  so  serene  she  looked,  so  fair  a  rose-tint  still  lingered 
on  her  softly  parted  lips;  but  there  was  something  in  the  half- 
closed  motionless  blue  orbs,  that  showed  that  the  fountain  of 
life  was  frozen  forever.  Robert  stood  gazing  upon  her  a  mo 
ment,  as  immovable  as  herself;  then  kneeling  down  he  laid 
his  hand  on  the  chill,  snowy  brow,  which  had  throbbed  the 
night  before  under  his  parting  kiss,  and  bent  over  the  icy  lips 
that  never  more  would  curl  with  the  warm  breath  of  life. 
Yes!  she  was  dead — cold — motionless;  and  Robert  felt  the 
dullness  of  mortality  creeping  through  every  vein  and  artery, 
felt  the  sublime  mystery  of  death  folding  up  his  spirit  and 
shutting  out  every  living  sound.  He  heard  no  longer  the 
shrieks  of  Nora,  he  heard  not  the  wails  and  sobs  that  now 
went  up  in  the  chamber  of  death,  he  was  scarcely  conscious 


186  ROBERT    GRAHAM  : 

when  Henry,  rushing  between  him  and  the  fair,  frozen  form, 
clasped  it  in  agony  to  his  bosom,  calling  on  God  to  save  her, 
in  the  wildness  and  impotence  of  grief. 

"  Oh !  Father  of  mercies,"  cried  Robert,  clasping  his  hands 
and  raising  them  to  heaven,  in  a  burst  of  irrepressible  emo 
tion,  "  blind  and  erring  that  I  am  !  I  promised  to  guard  and 
cherish  her  on  earth,  that  her  days  might  be  long  upon  the 
land;  but  thou  hast  crowned  her  with  everlasting  love,  even 
with  life  for  evermore." 

We  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  consternation  and  dis 
may  following  this  startling  event.  Every  means  usually  em 
ployed  to  rekindle  the  apparently  extinguished  spark  of  life 
was  vainly  used.  The  spirit  had  returned  to  the  God  who 
gave  it;  and  neither  tears,  nor  prayers,  nor  human  skill  could 
recall  it  to  the  lovely  clay  it  had  animated  for  the  brief  space 
of  seventeen  years. 

Oh,  happy,  happy  Julia !  why  should  we  mourn  for  thee  ? 
Better,  far  better,  to  pass  away,  as  thou  hast  done,  in  thy  un 
spotted  purity,  thy  guileless  youth,  in  the  springtime  of  thy 
love,  the  dawning  of  thy  hopes,  than  live  to  feel  the  blight 
and  the  mildew,  the  cold  winds,  the  beating  rains  of  darker 
years.  Life  glided  from  thee  in  a  dream  of  bliss,  which  never 
could  be  realized,  for  there  is  no  paradise  below  even  for  love 
like  thine.  We  will  not  weep  for  thee,  beloved  of  a  heavenly 
bridegroom,  but  for  the  parents  and  kindred  who  wait  thy 
return  with  the  opening  flowers  of  spring,  and  for  the  brother 
who  loved  thee  with  such  passing  tenderness,  and  to  whose 
care  thou  wast  committed  as  a  precious,  holy  trust. 

Who  that  looks  upon  thee  now,  arrayed  in  spotless  white 
as  the  bride  of  the  grave,  with  orange  blossoms  and  sweet 
geranium  leaves  wreathed  in  thy  golden  hair  and  placed  in 
thy  snowy  hands,  thine  eyes  now  gently  closed  as  if  in  quiet 
sleep,  and  that  divine  smile  on  thy  pure,  placid  lips,  but 
'vould  wish  to  gaze  forever  and  think  it  sacrilege  that  dust 
cover  a  form  so  surpassingly  fair  ?  "  But  dust  thou 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  1ST 

art,  and  unto  dust  thou  must  return."  Beauty  cannot  avert 
the  inexorable  decree,  nor  love  arrest  the  mournful  progress  of 
decay. 

The  loud  cry,  the  heart-rending  sob,  were  no  longer  heard 
in  the  presence  of  that  beauteous  sleeper.  The  silent  tear,  the 
pallid  cheek,  and  stilly  step  spoke  a  more  subdued,  affecting 
sorrow. 

Linda,  who  had  learned  the  first  sad  lesson  of  life's  brevity 
by  the  dying-bed  of  Luta,  repressed  her  own  grief  that  she 
might  assuage  the  anguish  of  others.  Henry  shut  himself  in 
his  room,  refusing  to  be  comforted ;  but  Robert  forced  him  to 
unbar  his  door,  and  listen  to  the  breathings  of  sympathy  and 
the  consolations  of  religion. 

Nora,  on  whom  the  shock  fell  like  a  thunderbolt,  was  at  first 
nearly  deprived  of  reason.  Death  had  entered  her  bed-room, 
had  lain  down  by  her  side,  had  breathed  his  chill  breath  upon 
her,  and  yet  she  knew  it  not.  And  it  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  consciously  been  in  its  awful  presence.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  her  brain  reeled  with  the  suddenness  of  the  terror, 
that  her  gay,  exuberant  spirits  turned  frantically  from  the  con 
templation  of  a  scene  so  wondrous  sad.  Linda  exhausted  her 
self  in  unavailing  efforts  to  soothe  her  wild  excitement,  when 
Aristides,  with  sad  and  earnest  tenderness,  came  to  her  relief. 
There  was  an  authority  in  his  manner,  to  which  Nora,  physi 
cally  weakened  by  her  stormy  emotions,  passively  yielded,  and 
he  led  her  in  silence  to  the  couch  where  Julia  now  reclined, 
looking  more  like  an  angel  of  heaven  than  a  child  of  clay. 

"  Weep  no  more,  oh !  virgo  infelix"  exclaimed  the  tender 
moralist,  his  own  eyes  streaming  with  tears ;  "  fear  to  disturb 
the  mystery  of  her  repose.  God  has  given  his  beloved  sleep, 
and  beautiful  is  the  hush  of  life  on  the  face  of  the  young 
Why  should  those  lament,  oh !  puella  lachrymosa,  for  one  who 
might  well  mourn  for  you,  if  tears  ever  fell  in  Paradise? 
Look  upon  her  in  silence,  and  adore  the  sovereignty  ot  the 
Most  High. 


188  ROBERT   GRAHAM: 

" '  Et  rose  elle  a  vecu  ce  que  vivent  les  roses, 
L'espace  d'un  matin/ 

A  rose  she  has  lived,  as  roses  live,  the  space  of  a  morn 
ing,"  as  the  poet  pathetically  remarks. 

Nora,  who  had  not  dared  to  look  on  the  face  of  the  dead 
since  the  first  fearful  glance,  shrinking  with  nameless  terror 
from  the  aspect  of  mortality,  gazed  and  gazed,  rooted  to  the 
spot  by  a  mighty  spell,  till  the  wild  tossings  of  her  spirit 
settled  down  into  a  glassy  calmness.  She  held  her  breath,  lest 
she  should  ruffle  the  stillness  of  those  fair,  lifeless  looks.  She 
repressed  her  sobs,  lest  they  should  interrupt  the  heavenly 
placidity  of  her  repose. 

"  Oh,  never  again,"  murmured  she,  leaning  with  childlike 
submissiveness  on  the  arm  of  Aristides,  "  will  I  fear  to  look 
on  the  face  of  death.  'Tis  beautiful,  'tis  divine !  But  take 
me  away — I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer." 

Nora  laid  the  solemn  lesson  next  her  heart.  She  continued 
to  weep,  but  it  was  in  silence ;  and  when  her  tears  fell  too 
abundantly,  Aristides  would  whisper  in  her  ear  some  beautiful 
aphorism  and  pathetic  quotation,  that  sunk  like  balm  into  her 
softened  soul. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  minutely  into  the  circumstances 
that  naturally  grew  out  of  this  melancholy  event.  Few,  in 
deed,  are  so  happy  as  not  to  be  familiar  with  them  all ;  and 
sad,  too  sad  for  description,, is  the  paraphernalia  of  the  grave. 
In  this  instance,  more  than  the  usual  mournfulness  involved 
the  funeral  rites.  Immediately  after  the  customary  consecra 
tion  of  prayer,  Henry  was  to  commence  his  homeward  journey, 
und  carry  back  to  her  native  soil  all  that  remained  of  the 
^oung,  betrothed  Julia. 

"  Would  that  I  could  go  with  you,"  said  Robert,  "  and 
assist  you  in  performing  your  melancholy  mission !  Had  I 
not  pledged  my  word  to  Roland  Lee  to  remain  during  his  ab 
sence,  as  the  guardian  of  his  family,  nothing  would  keep  me 


A  SEQUEL  TO  LINDA.  189 

from  this  sacred  duty.  But  my  spirit  will  follow  you,  dear 
brother  and  friend,  and  hover  round  our  Julia's  precious 
dust." 

"  If  it  were  possible,"  answered  Henry,  who  was  now  out 
wardly  calm,  "  I  know  it  would  be  done.  But  what  matters 
it  ?  There  is  no  remembrance  in  the  grave,  whither  I  bear 
her.  Even  you,  so  dearly  loved,  must  be  forgotten  there. 
No,  Robert !  remain  to  guard  the  living,  while  I  go  and  bury 
my  dead." 

"  Henry !"  said  Robert,  with  unutterable  solemnity,  "  you 
are  laying  up  in  heaven  costly  gems.  Is  not  your  heart  there 
also  ?  If  this  should  be  our  last  meeting  on  earth,  shall  I  not 
embrace  my  brother  in  that  blissful  clime  where  the  night  of 
death  never  falls,  and  where  the  gloom  of  parting  never 
comes  ?" 

"I  trust  so — I  trust  so,"  exclaimed  Henry,  pressing  Ro 
bert's  hand  with  a  fervent  grasp ;  "  friendship  like  ours  is  im 
mortal,  and  must  partake  of  the  eternity  of  our  existence. 
Oh,  my  friend !  if  in  this  life  only  we  had  hope,  what 
miserable  beings  would  we  be  in  an  hour  like  this  !  I  thank 
you,  Robert,  for  the  oil  with  which  you  have  fed  the  dim  lamp 
of  my  faith.  It  was  nearly  quenched  by  the  shades  that  so 
suddenly  darkened  round  me.  Your  prayers  have  sustained, 
your  example  strengthened  me.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have 
a  Christian  friend  !  to  be  united  to  a  noble  heart  by  the  bonds 
of  Christian  love !" 

"  Oh,  poor  and  weak  is  any  other  tie,"  exclaimed  Robert ; 
{l  weaker  than  the  smoking  flax  or  the  breaking  reed." 

Little  did  Henry  anticipate,  in  the  wild,  thoughtless  days 
of  college-life,  such  an  interview  as  this  with  the  passionate, 
the  haughty,  the  unbelieving  Robert  Graham. 

He  was  to  commence  his  journey  in  the  morning ;  for  not 

till  then  could  the  triple  coffin  be  obtained,  necessary  for  the 

unconscious  traveller.    At  twilight  he  wandered  in  the  garden, 

where  Julia  so  delighted  to  stray,  to  drink  in  for  the  last  time 

30 


190  ROBERT   GRAHAM: 

the  delicious  freshness  of  an  atmosphere  for  which  he  would 
vainly  sigh  in  his  ccld  Northern  home.  It  seemed  strange  to 
see  every  thing  so  gr>jen  and  blooming  still,  when  she,  so  young 
and  fair,  lay  cold  and  blighted  within.  As  he  turned  into  one 
of  the  shadiest  paths  lie  met  Nora,  looking  so  pale  and  wan, 
with  such  heavy  eyes  and  springless  steps,  it  was  difficult  to 
identify  her  with  the  mirth-loving,  care-defying  being  whom, 
with  all  her  faults,  he  had  most  sincerely  loved.  She  had 
come  out  into  the  open  air;  for,  as  the  evening  shades  de 
scended,  the  walls  which  enclosed  the  mystery  of  death  op 
pressed  and  chilled  her.  She  wanted  to  remove  herself  as  far 
from  them  as  possible. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  Henry,  whose  pale,  sad  countenance  in 
dicated  a  sorrow  that  passed  show,  she  held  out  her  hand,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  Henry  !"  she  cried,  giving  way  to  a  passion  of  sorrow 
and  remorse  for  the  levity  and  waywardness  which  had 
alienated  him  from  her,  and  which  she  had  hitherto  been  too 
proud  to  express.  "  In  this  moment  of  anguish  and  bereave 
ment,  pity  and  forgive  me.  For  her  sake,  forgive  me — I  will 
not  ask  it  for  my  own." 

"  More  than  forgiveness — take  my  blessing,  Nora,  for  every 
tear  you  shed.  I  am  not,  then,  utterly  bereaved ;"  and,  draw 
ing  her  hand  through  his  arm,  they  walked  through  the  long, 
winding  avenues,  till  the  thick  foliage  became  dewy  and  chill. 
They  did  not  talk  of  love  and  hope  beneath  the  cypress- 
boughs  of  sorrow ;  but  they  felt,  perhaps  unconsciously,  the 
soothing  influence  of  both.  Henry,  who  had  been  struggling 
against  the  fascination  which  Nora  exercised  over  him,  believ 
ing  her  destitute  of  sensibility  and  womanliness,  found  a  balm 
in  her  proffered  sympathy,  a  charm  in  her  unaffected  humility 
and  ingenuousness,  the  more  deeply  appreciated  because  so 
unlocked  for. 

"  What  a  sad,  sad  journey  you  have  before  you  !"  she  said, 
as  they  slowly  approached  the  house,  and  their  eyes  simul- 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  191 

taneously  rested  on  the  open  window,  which  admitted  the 
night-breeze  to  the  faded  flower  it  would  never  more  revive. 
"And  what  sad  hearts  you  will  leave  behind  !  I  shrink  from 
the  mournful  future." 

' "  It  will  not  be  always  dark,  Nora.  I  have  known  before 
what  sorrow  is,  and  light  has  dawned  on  its  shadows.  The 
clouds  of  the  heart  dissolve  in  tears ;  and  God  places  on  the 
mist  the  bow  of  promise,  as  a  surety  that  the  seedtime  and 
harvest  of  love  and  joy  shall  never  utterly  fail.  I  may  not 
see  you  alone  again  before  my  departure.  Sweet,  though  sor 
rowful,  will  be  the  memories  of  your  Southern  land.  Whether 
I  -ever  return  to  it  again  depends,  Nora,  on  you  alone.  This 
is  no  time  to  talk  of  love,  but  I  have  laid  bare  to  you  my 
whole  heart,  in  a  happier  hour.  As  it  was  then,  so  it  is  now, 
— only  I  have  more  need  of  the  boon  I  asked,  and  feel  that  I 
could  prize  it  more.  There  is  one  less  to  love  me  now,  Nora." 

"If  you  ever  do  return,  Henry,"  answered  Nora,  in  the 
heartfelt  tones  of  genuine  tenderness  and  sincerity,  "you 
shall  find  one  heart  to  welcome  and  to  love  you ;  corrected,  I 
trust,  of  its  worst  faults,  and  willing  to  surrender  itself  with 
all  a  woman's  gentleness  to  your  guardian  keeping." 

They  turned  back,  and  walked  again  through  the  darkening 
avenues,  and  their  hearts  were  more  united,  more  melted  in 
one,  by  the  mutual  sorrow  and  sympathy  which  had  unveiled 
them  to  each  other,  than  they  would  have  been  in  years  of  gay, 
mirthful  intercourse. 

It  was  not  without  reason  that  the  great  master  of  human 
wisdom  said,  "  By  the  sadness  of  the  countenance  the  heart  is 
made  better."  "  It  is  better  to  go  to  the  house  of  mourning 
than  the  house  of  feasting." 

Sorrow  is  a  miner, — it  digs  deep  in  the  heart,  and  finds  its 
embedded  gold.  It  is  a  diver,  and  brings  up  the  ocean  pearls 
It  is  a  high  priest,  and  consecrates  the  sacrifice  it  imposes. 


192  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WHAT  strange  contrasts  human  life  presents ! 

A  little  more  than  three  years  ago,  the  same  room  at  Rosa- 
villa,  now  prepared  for  the  funeral  rites,  was  occupied  by  a 
brilliant  bridal  throng.  The  same  youthful,  pale,  and  dark- 
haired  minister  who  pronounced  the  marriage  blessing  on  the 
bridal  pair,  stood  now  at  the  head  of  the  coffin,  about  to  con 
secrate,  by  the  prayer  of  faith,  the  solemnities  of  death.  Linda 
remembered  this  coincidence  well,  and  as  she  bowed  her  head 
on  her  hands  to  hide  her  gushing  tears,  they  fell  for  the  living 
Robert  as  fast  as  for  the  encoffined  Julia. 

"  I  have  been  marking  out  for  him  paths  of  earthly  felicity," 
thought  she,  "  strewed  with  the  blossoms  of  love ;  but  God  is 
preparing  for  him  a  more  glorious  destiny.  His  is  to  be  the 
palm  of  victory,  the  crown  of  glory  awarded  to  those  who,  through 
tribulations  and  struggles,  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
I  yield  thee,"  continued  her  musing,  weeping  spirit,  "  beloved 
brother  of  my  soul,  to  the  cause  thou  hast  espoused,  the  Master 
thou  hast  so  nobly  served.  Go,  if  thou  wilt,  once  more  to  pa 
gan  lands,  and  give  to  many  a  darkened  soul  the  hopes  that 
now  illumine  ours ;  these  weak  hands  will  no  longer  hold  thee 
back,  for  God  claims  thee,  thou  chastened  by  many  trials." 

The  voice  of  Robert,  in  its  peculiar  under-tone  of  deep  pa 
thos,  stole  on  her  meditations  like  a  strain  of  rich,  solemn 
music.  He  read  one  of  those  beautiful  hymns  appropriate  to 
the  memory  of  the  early  departed,  and  the  strains  mingling 
with  the  breath  of  the  white  roses  and  jessamines,  funeral 
blossoms  that  were  scattered  profusely  on  the  coffin-lid,  ascended 
as  incense  to  heaven.  Brief  as  solemn  was  the  consecrating 
prayer,  for  the  smoke  of  the  steamer  in  which  Henry  was  to 
embark  was  already  darkly  curling  up  into  the  blue  sky. 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  193 

"I  am  tlie  resurrection  and  the  life,"  he  repeated,  and  his 
roice,  rising  in  sweetness  and  power,  seemed  to  fill  the  room 
with  an  atmosphere  of  religious  grandeur;  "  he  that  believe th 
in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live.  And  whosoever 
liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall  never  die. 

"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  he  shall  stand 
at  the  latter  day  upon  the  earth.  And  though  after  my  skin 
worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see  God : 
whom  I  shall  see  for  myself,  and  mine  eyes  shall  behold,  and 
not  another." 

It  was  while  uttering  these  sublime  words  of  inspiration  she 
whom  he  had  thus  consecrated  as  the  bride  of  death,  was  car 
ried  out,  through  a  line  of  sobbing  negroes,  whose  demonstra 
tions  of  grief  had  frequently  interrupted  the  affecting  and  im 
pressive  rite. 

The  whole  household  followed  to  the  river-side.  Robert 
walked  in  front  with  uncovered  head.  On  one  side  of  the 
bier  was  seen  the  tall  and  stately  form  of  the  Christian  Indian, 
on  the  other,  the  slender  and  gray-clad  figure  of  Aristides 
Longwood.  Henry,  Linda,  and  Nora  walked  in  the  shadow 
of  the  dark,  sweeping  pall,  while  in  the  rear  came  the  tender 
hearted  slaves,  headed  by  Aunt  Judy,  sorrowing  that  they 
should  never  look  again  upon  the  sweet  young  face  of  the  fair 
Northern  stranger.  As  the  procession  went  winding  down  the 
path  that  led  to  the  river,  now  embosomed  in  the  shade  of  tall, 
branching  trees,  now  emerging  into  sunshine,  the  negroes  sang 
a  low,  plaintive  melody  in  some  of  their  own  peculiar  words, 
and  it  mingled  solemnly  with  the  murmurs  of  the  great  river 
of  the  western  world. 

Henry  could  not  speak  when  the  moment  of  parting  came. 
He  had  not  realized  till  that  moment  all  that  he  had  lost,  and 
all  that  he  was  leaving.  The  consciousness  pressed  upon  him 
with  iron  weight,  and  his  manly  fortitude  was  crushed  by  its 
burden.  He  dashed  from  his  eyes  the  blinding  tears,  but  they 
•would  gather,  and  his  throat  closed  on  the  attempted  adieu 


101  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

Strange  !  dearly  as  he  now  loved  Nora,  and  knowing  that  he 
was  beloved  again,  he  felt  less  pain  in  parting  with  her  than 
Ptobert.  He  would  return  with  the  flowers  of  a  Northern 
spring  to  claim  her  as  his  own,  but  where  would  then  be  the 
friend  to  whom  he  felt  drawn  by  an  attachment  passing  even 
the  love  of  woman  ? 

The  hand  of  Robert  was  the  last  he  grasped,  with  a  long, 
lingering  pressure. 

"  May  the  God  of  the  traveller  watch  over  and  bless  you, 
and  guard  the  sacred  ashes  of  my  betrothed  bride,"  said  Robert, 
his  dark,  melancholy  eyes  glistening  with  emotion,  as  they  gave 
the  parting  glance  to  his  friend,  then  turned  to  the  heavens, 
glittering  in  morning  glory  above  them. 

Henry  stood  on  deck,  as  long  as  he  could  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  figures  lingering  on  the  shore, — as  long  as  the  white 
turrets  of  Rosavilla  were  seen  rising  above  the  green  shade- 
trees  into  the  blue  of  the  sky.  The  waves  of  the  majestic 
Mississippi  rolled  beneath,  sparkling  with  ten  thousand  dia 
monds  in  the  sun, — the  shores  smiled  in  summer  beauty, — the 
river  breeze  blew  with  pure  and  inspiring  influence, — every 
thing  was  grand,  and  beautiful,  and  bright, — yet  those  heaving 
waters  were  drifting  onward  a  weight  of  wo  to  the  bosom  of  a 
now  happy  home.  And  he,  the  sad  survivor, — the  lonely 
guardian  of  the  dead, — turned  with  sickening  heart  from  all 
this  bloom,  and  brightness,  and  grandeur,  to  hide  his  sorrow 
from  the  gaze  of  man. 

Sad,  as  Nora  had  said,  were  the  hearts  he  left  behind. 
There  was  not  even  a  grave  to  weep  over, — that  place  imme- 
morially  set  apart  for  the  mourner's  tears.  Nora,  who  had  a 
cause  of  sorrow, — as  yet  known  only  to  herself, — shut  herself 
in  her  chamber,  to  weep  for  the  absent  Henry,  and  sigh  over 
the  opportunities  she  had  wasted  of  proving  to  him  her  appre 
ciation  of  his  worth. 

Linda  wandered  sadly  through  the  apartment,  hallowed  by 


A    SEQUEL   TO    LINDA.  „    ,» 195 

the  recent  presence  of  death.  The  wilted  blossoms,  fallen 
from  the  dark  coffin-lid,  lay  scattered  on  the  carpet,  breath 
ing  a  melancholy,  dying  perfume.  The  withering  petals,  and 
sweet,  faint  odour,  were  emblematical  of  the  early  fate  of  her 
whose  relics  they  had  embalmed,  and  Linda  sighed  as  she 
inhaled  what  seemed  to  her  their  deadly  fragrance.  Why 
was  Roland  absent,  on  whose  sympathizing  bosom  she  could 
weep  away  the  oppression  of  her  heart?  When  would  he 
return,  to  gladden  with  his  looks  of  love  her  now  saddened 
home? 

The  door  opened,  and  Robert  entered,  prompted  by  the 
same  feelings  to  seek  the  place,  haunted  by  such  mournful, 
yet  holy  memories.  She  hurried  forward  to  meet  him,  and, 
subdued  by  the  sadness  and  solemnity  of  the  scene  through 
which  they  had  just  passed,  leaned  weeping  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  Robert,"  said  she,  "  you  are  all  that  is  left  me.  Ro 
land  is  away — Julia  is  gone,  my  sweet,  adopted  sister  is  taken 
from  me;  what  should  I  do,  bereft  of  your  sympathy  and  ten 
derness?  Yet  it  is  I  who  should  comfort  you,  for  never  again 
will  you  find  a  heart  that  will  love  you  so  truly,  so  exclusively, 
and  so  devotedly." 

"I  have  done  with  earthly  love,"  answered  Robert,  rais 
ing  his  eyes  from  Linda's  drooping  form  to  heaven ;  "  its 
last,  pnle  blossom  dies  on  Julia's  early  grave.  Heaven  has 
been  kinder  to  her  than  you,  dear  sister.  Poor  indeed  was 
the  return  I  could  make  for  her  pure  and  boundless  love. 
God  knew  it,  and  took  her  to  himself,  who  is  love  immeasu 
rable,  unchangeable,  and  everlasting." 

Linda  listened  with  thrilling  interest,  as  Robert  continued 
to  lift  her  thoughts  to  high  and  holy  themes.  She  gradually 
separated  the  sweet  image  of  Julia  from  the  appalling  accom 
paniments  of  death,  and  placed  it  in  that  band  of  adoring 
seraphs,  whose  robes  have  been  washed  white  in  the  blood  of 
the  Lamb. 

It  was  long  before  Nora  recovered  from  the  awful  shock  she 


196  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

had  received.  She  started,  and  turned  pale  at  every  sudden 
sound  and  motion.  She  shrank,  with  a  nervous  shiver,  from 
the  shadows  of  night, — she,  who  never  before  knew  what 
nervous  trepidation  meant,  and  whose  dauntless  spirit  scoffed 
at  the  terrors  of  imagination,  as  well  as  actual  dangers.  Linda 
insisted  that  she  should  share  her  own  room,  and  sought,  by 
every  gentle  and  persuasive  means,  to  rouse  her  from  the  mor 
bid  state  in  which  she  was  sinking.  The  little  Walton  uncon 
sciously  aided  his  lovely  mother  in  her  daily  task.  The  mid 
night  visit  of  the  dark  king  of  the  grave  had  left  no  cloud  on 
his  infantine  smile.  It  still  beamed  joyously,  though  other 
brows  were  sad.  He  seemed  an  embodied  promise,  that  if 
youth,  and  beauty,  and  life  had  passed  away,  it  was  ever 
springing  up  anew,  in  defiance  of  the  conqueror's  power. 
Nora  became  passionately  fond  of  the  child,  and  her  smiles 
gradually  returned  in  answer  to  the  sweet  smiles  of  innocence. 
But  tne  gay  laugh,  that  rang  like  a  chime  of  silver  bells 
through  all  the  house,  no  longer  echoed  in  its  walls. 

About  one  week  after  the  departure  of  Henry, — it  was  per 
haps  an  hour  before  the  usual  bed-time, — when  they  were 
quietly  seated  in  the  parlour,  Linda  and  Nora  engaged  in 
some  feminine  occupation,  while  Robert  read  aloud,  and  Aris- 
tides  listened,  with  his  chin  propped  upon  his  right  hand. 
Aunt  Judy  came  to  the  door,  and  beckoned  her  young  mis 
tress.  She  would  not  for  the  world  interrupt  "  Massa  Ro 
bert's  beautiful  preaching,"  as  she  seemed  to  think  all  his 
reading  must  be  sermons. 

"  Miss  Lindy,"  said  Judy,  smoothing  down  her  apron,  and 
speaking  in  a  low  voice,  as  soon  as  she  had  closed  the  doors, 
"  there's  an  old  woman  down  there  by  my  cabin,  that  says  she 
must  speak  to  the  mistress,  and  nobody  else  wont  do.  I  tells 
her  she'd  better  give  her  business  to  me,  so  as  not  to  pester 
Miss  Lindy,  when  she's  setting  up  with  company  in  the  par 
lour;  but  she  wont  hear  to  nothing  of  the  kind.  She  sayt 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  197 

she'll  not  entertain  you  more  than  a  minnit;  but  she's  got 
news  that  you'll  be  glad  to  hear." 

"  Perhaps/'  thought  Linda,  her  cheeks  flushing  with  ex 
cited  feelings,  "  perhaps  she  brings  me  tidings  connected 
with  the  robbery  of  my  child.  Perhaps  it  is  the  wife  of  a 
eailor,  who  may  have  met  the  vessel  in  which  Roland  sailed, 
and  brings  some  message  from  him.  Give  me  a  shawl,  Aunt 
Judy,"  said  she,  aloud,  "  and  I  will  follow  you  directly." 

It  was  no  uncommon  occurrence  for  poor  emigrants  to  come 
up  from  the  boats,  when  they  were  detained  at  the  landing, 
to  claim  the  charities  of  the  sweet  mistress  of  Rosavilla, 
whose  name  floated  over  the  waves  of  the  Mississippi,  em 
balmed  with  the  blessings  of  the  poor.  There  was  nothing 
peculiar  in  this  circumstance  but  the  especial  intelligence  to 
be  communicated  to  her,  and,  connecting  this  with  the  idea 
of  her  secret  enemy,  she  followed  Judy,  with  her  curiosity  and 
interest  painfully  excited. 

As  she  came  near  Judy's  cabin,  which  was  quite  aloof  from 
the  others,  having  a  larger  garden  and  a  wider  space  in  front, 
she  saw  the  figure  of  a  woman  standing  close  to  the  fence, 
under  the  branches  of  a  cottonwood  tree.  As  there  was  no 
moon,  there  was  a  pine-torch  blazing  on  a  mud-capped  tripod 
not  far  from  the  cabin.  By  this  light  Linda  perceived  that 
the  woman  looked  bent  and  decrepid.  She  was  wrapped  in  an 
old,  brown  cloak,  and  a  large,  old-fashioned,  straw  bonnet  tied 
down  under  the  chin,  with  a  black  silk  handerchief  pitched  in 
ludicrous  manner  over  her  face. 

"  Go  into  your  cabin,  Aunt  Judy,  while  I  speak  to  her," 
said  Linda,  drawing  still  nearer  the  old  women,  "and  see 
what  she  wants.  Poor  old  creature  !  she  must  be  tired  stand 
ing  there  so  long.  I  will  ask  her  to  go  in,  and  talk  with 
me,  in  your  nice  little  bedroom." 

"  Don't  let  her  keep  you  long,"  whispered  Aunt  Judy,  as  she 
turned  into  her  cabin.  "  I  sorter  suspicions  her.  Mebby  she's 
a  rogue.  The  Lord  have  mercy  if  I  pass  a  wrong  judgment !" 


198  •        ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

"  IMy  good  woman,"  said  Linda,  with  that  graceful  courtesy 
which  never  forsook  her,  even  when  addressing  the  lowest  and 
poorest,  "  if  you  wish  to  speak  with  me,  come  into  the  cabin, 
and  sit  down.  You  look  too  old  and  infirm  to  be  standing 
abroad." 

"  It  is  but  a  moment  that  I  have  to  spare,"  answered  the 
woman,  in  a  thick  voice,  somewhat  difficult  to  understand; 
"the  boat  will  be  off  from  shore  directly,  and  I  must  not  be 
left  behind." 

"Then  tell  me  quickly  what  you  have  to  communicate," 
said  Linda,  thinking  the  voice  of  the  stranger  indicated  more 
strength  than  her  bending  form.  "What  tidings  do  you 
bring  that  I  will  rejoice  to  hear?  Tell  me  quickly,  and  I  will 
reward  you  liberally." 

"  Your  child  was  carried  off  a  while  ago,  was  it  not  ?"  cried 
the  woman,  coming  a  step  or  two  nearer  Linda,  and  inclining 
her  head  toward  her.  "  I  am  deaf  in  one  ear,  and  you  must 
come  close,  for  I  dare  not  speak  too  loud." 

"  My  child !"  exclaimed  Linda,  pressing  forward,  forgetting 
all  personal  repugnance,  in  the  absorbing  interest  of  the 
subject, — "yes.  Do  you  know  any  thing  of  the  ruffian? 
Who  is  he  ?  Where  is  he  ?  Why  does  he  wish  to  rob  me  of 
my  child  ?  Tell  me  what  you  know,  and  do  not — do  not  keep 
me  in  suspense !" 

"  Can't  she  hear  ?"  cried  the  woman,  pointing  to  the  cabin. 
"  It  is  as  much  as  my  life  is  worth  if  she  does." 

"  No,  no  ! — but  step  farther  off,  if  you  fear." 

"  But  aint  there  anybody  skulking  about  the  yard,  or 
behind  the  fences  ?" 

"No,  no!  again  I  say,"  cried  Linda,  impatiently;  and 
taking  the  old  woman  by  the  cloak,  she  pulled  her  farther 
under  the  boughs  of  the  cottonwood  tree.  At  any  other 
moment,  she  would  have  shrunk  from  touching  a  figure  so 
repulsive,  for  there  was  something  about  it  singularly  dis 
agreeable.  She  could  not  distinguish  her  features  under  her 


A   SEQUEL  TO   LINDA  199 

deep  bonnet,  shaded  as  it  was  by  long,  black,  tangled  locks, 
hanging  down  each  side  of  her  face ;  but  every  time  she 
spoke,  the  tones  of  her  thick,  husky  voice  made  Linda  recoil 
with  instinctive  disgust.  The  thought,  however,  of  being 
able  to  discover  her  enemy,  and  securing  her  child  against 
future  assaults,  swallowed  up  every  other  consideration. 

"  My  husband  knows  the  man  that  stole  your  child.  He's 
a  poor  sailor,  nothing  but  a  cripple,  that  left  the  ship  for  the 
steamboat,  and  has  to  scuffle  hard  to  get  along.  He's  just 
round  the  corner  of  the  fence  waiting  for  me.  He  heard  you 
would  give  a  reward  to  any  one  that  would  discover  the 
ruffian ;  and  he  told  me  to  come  up  with  him,  and  get  you  out, 
where  he  could  tell  you.  He  was  afraid  he  might  be  taken 
for  the  man  himself,  as  he  wears  sailor's  clothes." 

All  the  time  the  old  woman  was  talking,  she  had  slowly 
approached  the  corner  of  the  fence,  where,  she  said,  her  hus 
band  was  waiting;  and  all  the  time  Linda  instinctively  fol 
lowed,  forgetting  herself  in  her  child. 

"  Where  is  your  husband  ?"  she  asked,  perceiving  no  man 
near;  and,  for  the  first  time,  a  vague  suspicion  that  all  was 
not  right  entering  her  mind.  The  extreme  caution  of  the  old 
woman,  her  drawing  her  away  so  far  from  the  cabin,  and 
deferring  her  communication  so  long,  all  at  once  struck  her  as 
mysterious.  She  felt  sick  from  agitation,  and  looked  back  to 
the  blazing  tripod,  wondering  that  it  appeared  so  distant. 

"  I  will  not  go  any  farther  !"  she  exclaimed,  drawing  back 
step  by  step,  afraid  of  manifesting  her  rising  fears.  If  the 
woman  had  any  sinister  design,  she  probably  had  some  accom 
plice  ready  to  do  her  bidding.  Besides,  her  husband  might  be 
in  the  shadow  of  the  fence,  waiting  to  tell  the  secret,  and 
claim  the  reward. 

"  I  can  run  swifter  than  this  old  woman,"  thought  she,  "  if 
she  be  an  impostor;  ana  what  harm  can  she  be  meditating 
against  me  ?" 

"  He's  tired  of  waiting,  I  see,  and  I  must  tell  you  myself/' 


200  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

cried  the  woman,  coming  up  close  to  the  retreating  Linda, 
untying,  at  the  same  time,  the  black  silk  handkerchief  that 
fastened  her  bonnet;  "  this  chokes  me;  I  can't  talk." 

Quick,  as  a  flash  of  lightning,  she  darted  behind  Linda, 
threw  the  handkerchief  round  her  mouth,  thickly  folded  as  it 
vas,  so  as  to  muffle  her  cries,  and  seizing  her  in  a  pair 
of  strong,  masculine  arms,  started  off  in  the  direction  of 
the  woods  with  a  stride  that  bid  age  and  decrepitude  do- 
fiance. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !"  chuckled  the  wretch.  That  sound 
— that  well-remembered  sound — fell  on  Linda's  fainting  ear, 
calling  up  the  most  horrible  scene  of  her  life.  She  tried  to 
tear  off  the  muffling  folds  of  the  handkerchief,  and  send  her 
soul  abroad  in  shrieks  of  agony,  but  her  arms  were  pinioned 
to  her  side  by  the  straining  arms  of  the  ruffian.  Panting, 
suffocating,  almost  dying  with  terror,  her  head  sunk  back,  and 
her  long,  loosened  hair  swept  against  the  rough  bark  of  the 
trees,  as  she  was  carried  on  with  dizzying  rapidity.  She 
struggled  with  the  deadly  faintness  that  wrapped  her  as  in  a 
mist.  Any  thing  but  insensibility !  Welcome  death,  but  not 
insensibility  !  But  it  came,  happily  for  her;  else  her  reason 
might  have  fled,  from  the  horror  of  her  situation. 

"She  waxes  heavy;  her  face  is  ccld,"  cried  the  pretended 
woman,  striding  onward  with  demon  speed ;  "  but  I  must  not 
stop — I  must  not — till  I  reach  the  old  hut  in  the  woods  ! — 
no,  no  ! — I  will  not  be  baffled  a  second  time  ! — I  will  not ! 
All  I  wanted  of  the  child  was  to  get  the  mother  in  my  power; 
and  now  I  have  got  her  without  the  child,  which  is  a  thousand 
times  better  ! — it  is  ! — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !" 

Thus  exulting  and  chuckling,  the  villian  hurried  on,  cutting 
the  woods  by  a  path  almost  impervious,  crossing  marshes, 
and  breaking  through  tangled  bushes,  that  rent  the  soft  folds 
of  Linda's  garments  and  left  fragments  behind,  hanging  from 
the  twigs.  He  had  torn  the  bandage  from  her  mouth,  as  soon 
as  he  had  discovered  her  insensibility,  that  the  air  might  re* 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  201 

vive  her,  for  lie  did  not  mean  that  death  should  cheat  him  of 
his  prey. 

There  was  an  old  hut  deep  in  the  wood,  remote  from  any 
habitation,  which  was  called  the  Haunted  Hut,  from  the  tradi 
tion  of  a  murder  having  been  committed  in  it.  The  negroes 
asserted  that  the  headless  trunk  of  a  man  was  often  seen  near 
midnight  roaming  the  woods,  in  the  direction  of  the  old 
haunted  cabin.  You  could  not  tempt  one  of  them,  with  all 
the  gold  of  California,  to  approach  it  alone  after  the  twilight 
hour.  It  was  so  old,  so  low,  so  sheltered  by  trees  and  over 
grown  with  moss  and  creeping  vines,  that  it  was  scarcely  dis 
tinguishable  in  the  broad  light  of  day  from  the  forest  growth 
that  surrounded  it.  This  damp,  dismal,  almost  inaccessable 
place,  had  been  discovered  and  prepared  for  the  present  occa 
sion.  There  was  a  stream  of  turbid  water  to  cross,  bridged 
by  a  narrow  and  slippery  plank.  The  moment  he  reached 
the  opposite  side  of  the  plank,  the  disguised  man  turned  and 
dashed  the  plank  into  the  water.  When  Linda  opened  her 
eyes,  recovering  from  her  long  and  deadly  swoon,  she  was 
lying  on  a  low  bed,  in  a  little  dismal  apartment,  lighted  by  a 
single  glimmering  lamp.  At  first,  she  could  not  distinguish 
one  object  from  another,  neither  could  she  recollect  the  horrible 
circumstances  which  had  brought  her  there.  She  put  her 
hands  to  her  forehead  and  pushed  back  her  dripping  hair ; 
she  pressed  them  on  her  eyes,  which  seemed  darkened  with 
mist.  All  at  once,  a  blaze  kindled  on  the  hearth,  or  the  place 
where  a  hearth  once  was  laid,  and  memory  flushed  up  with  a 
simultaneous  flame.  She  recollected  every  thing,  even  the 
horrible  ha — ha ;  and  starting  to  her  feet,  and  looking  wildly 
round  her,  her  eyes  were  arrested  by  the  dreaded  form  of  her 
enemy,  now  no  longer  disguised.  There  he  stood,  right  before 
her,  in  all  the  exultation  of  successful  villany  j  the  old,  brown 
cloak,  the  large  straw-bonnet,  the  long,  tangled  black  locks  all 
throvrn  aside  with  the  stooping  back  and  decrepid  appearance 
of  well-dissembled  age.  There  were  the  stout,  firm-set  figure, 


202  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

the  red,  bristling  hair,  the  small,  gleaming  black  eye,  the 
white,  uneven  teeth,  and  remarkably-formed  mouth  of  the 
Scottish  monster,  McLeod. 

"  Ha,  ha  I"  said  he,  chuckling  and  rubbing  his  hands 
together,  while  his  eyes  glittered  with  ferocious  joy.  "  I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you  again — I  am.  Hope  I  see  you  very  well — 
I  do.  Wont  you  shake  hands  with  an  old  friend?  I'm  will 
ing  to  forget  and  forgive.  Never  could  bear  malice  against 
any  one — I  could'nt, — much  less  against  you,  pretty  creature." 

Linda  gazed  at  him  a  moment  with  a  steadfast  gaze ;  then 
glanced  at  the  shutters — the  wooden  shutters — all  fastened 
within  with  iron  hooks;  at  the  door,  secured  with  a  long 
wooden  bar,  that  slid  into  large  iron  rings;  and  she  knew  she 
was  in  the  power  of  an  inexorable  foe.  How  far  she  was 
from  home,  she  knew  not ;  where  she  was,  she  knew  not.  She 
only  knew  that  it  was  McLeod  before  her,  who,  she  had  heard 
long  ago,  was  returned  to  his  native  country,  and  whom  sho 
remembered  only  to  forgive. 

"  Great  God  I"  she  exclaimed,  sinking  down  again  on  the 
side  of  the  bed,  for  her  limbs  bent  under  her.  "  How  long 
have  I  been  here  ?  and  why  am  I  brought  ?" 

"  You've  been  here  but  a  few  moments,"  answered  McLeod, 
still  rubbing  his  exulting  hands.  "  You  must  excuse  me  for 
wetting  your  beautiful  hair  so,  but  I  had  to  pour  cold  water 
on  you  to  bring  you  to — I  had.  I  did  not  mean  to  frighten 
you  so — I  did'nt.  I  just  brought  you  here  for  company, 
my  dear.  I've  fitted  up  the  place  nicely, — on  purpose  for  you. 
Don't  you  like  it  ?" 

Had  Linda  perceived  one  outlet  of  escape,  one  ray  of  hope, 
she  would  have  been  frantic  till  she  had  effected  her  release ; 
but  the  utterness  of  her  despair  rendered  her  passive.  She 
sat  with  her  white  hands  tightly  clasped,  her  eyes  fixed  as  if 
converted  into  stone,  her  hair  darkened  by  the  water  which 
had  drenched  it,  clinging  in  dishevelled  masses  to  her  neck  and 
shoulders,  her  shawl  of  fjarlet  camel's  huir;  torn  by  the 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  203 

brambles, — her  whole  appearance  indicating  the  abandonment  of 
despair. 

But  while  she  sat  thus,  white,  rigid,  motionless  as  a  statue, 
her  mind  was  at  work  with  preternatural  activity.  All  her  past 
eventful  life  rose  up  before  her,  the  dangers  she  had  incurred, 
the  perils  she  had  escaped,  the  unexpected  guardian  that  had 
been  raised  up  to  defend  her.  If  any  human  being  had  reason 
to  put  their  trust  in  God,  it  was  she,  for  had  he  not  in  former 
trials  given  his  angels  charge  concerning  her,  and  arrested  the 
billows  that  threatened  to  overwhelm  her?  She  thought  of 
Roland  on  transatlantic  shores,  of  Robert  in  Rosavilla's  shades, 
of  Tuscarora  sleeping,  doubtless,  on  his  bed  of  furs.  Where 
was  the  deliverer  to  arise  from  ? 

"  Oh,  that  thou  wouldst  rend  the  heavens  and  come  down !" 
was  the  prayer  of  her  spirit,  as  she  lifted  upward  her  tearless 
and  agonized  glance;  "then  the  mountains  of  peril  would  flow 
down  at  thy  presence.  Thine  arm  is  not  shortened,  that  it 
cannot  save.  Thine  ear  is  not  heavy,  that  it  cannot  hear." 

There  was  something  so  unearthly  in  her  countenance,  so 
deadly  in  her  aspect,  that  McLeod,  hardened  as  he  was,  trem 
bled  as  he  gazed,  fearing  her  soul  might  depart  in  the  ecstasy 
of  her  terror. 

"  You  look  pale,"  he  cried,  going  to  a  table  in  a  corner  by 
the  chimney;  and,  taking  up  a  black  bottle,  he  poured  out 
some  wine  in  a  gourd,  and  brought  it  to  her  to  drink.  "  This 
will  revive  you,  and  keep  you  from  taking  cold.  Taste;  I 
brought  it  for  you — I  did." 

Linda  shook  her  head,  with  a  repelling  gesture.  She  would 
have  swallowed  it,  for  she  felt  so  faint,  so  cold,  so  gone;  and  it 
might  impart  a  transient  warmth  and  life,  but  she  feared  it 
might  be  adulterated  with  some  Eastern  drug.  She  had  read 
and  heard  of  such  things,  and  as  nothing  which  she  had  ever 
read  or  heard  surpassed  the  horror  of  her  present  situation, 
why  should  she  think  any  deed  too  dark  Tor  the  villain  to 
perpetrate  ? 


204  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"  Give  me  water,"  she  cried  faintly,  "  and  leave  me,  if  you 
would  not  see  me  die." 

As  McLeod  turned  to  dip  the  water  from  the  bucket,  which 
stood  on  a  shelf  in  an  opposite  corner  of  the  room,  his  back 
was  toward  her.  She  glanced  wildly  round  to  see  if  any  wea 
pon  of  defence  was  within  her  reach,  when  she  saw  something 
gleam  on  the  bed-cover,  in  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  chimney. 
It  reflected  a  cold,  blue  lustre,  and  she  knew  it  was  the  flash 
of  steel.  The  knife  must  have  fallen  from  the  villain's  lea 
thern  belt,  while  endeavouring  to  rouse  her  from  her  deadly 
swoon.  With  the  instinct  of  the  hunted  deer,  that  thinks 
only  of  self-preservation  when  the  track  of  blood  is  behind 
it,  she  grasped  the  weapon  in  her  left  hand,  and  wrapped  it 
in  the  scarlet  foldings  of  her  shawl.  It  was  instantaneously 
done, — done  while  McLeod  was  dipping  the  water  from  the 
bucket;  but  FO  fearful  was  she  of  detection,  that  when  he  ap 
proached  her,  she  fancied  the  serpent-gleam  of  his  eye  had  a 
more  malicious  twinkle,  and  her  heart  throbbed  as  though 
every  vein  and  artery  were  bursting. 

"  You  look  better  now,"  cried  he,  for  on  one  white  cheek  a 
faint  red  was  beginning  to  glow,  relieving  her  death-like  pal 
lor  ;  "  sit  down  in  this  chair,  and  make  yourself  at  home. 
There  is  no  use  in  being  frightened.  You  shall  be  treated  like 
a  lady — you  shall.  I  hav'nt  got  any  negroes  here  to  wait 
upon  you  ;  but  I  will  wait  upon  you  myself — ha,  ha  !" 

"Take  me  back  to  my  home,  then,"  she  cried,  sinking  into 
the  chair  which  he  brought  to  the  fireside,  still  keeping  her 
shawl  in  gathered  folds  around  her;  "  take  me  back,  McLeod, 
and  I  will  not  only  forgive  this  outrage,  but  you  shall  receive 
for  my  ransom  uncounted  gold." 

"  I've  been  at  too  much  trouble  to  give  you  up  so  readily," 
said  McLeod,  seating  himself  near  Aer,  and  running  the  fin 
gers  of  his  right  hand  through  his  fiery  locks  with  ineffable 
self-conceit.  "  You  thought  I  was  in  Scotland  all  this  time — 
did  you?  Well,  I  have  been  there.  I  thought  you  were 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  205 

drowned,  and  I  didn't  feel  very  comfortable  about  it — I  didn't. 
It  seemed  to  me  I  should  feel  better  farther  off.  By-and-by  I 
came  back,  and  started  for  the  Great  West.  I  saw  your  beau 
tiful  mansion,  looking  down  so  grand  on  the  river,  and  when 
they  told  me  whose  it  was,  I  fairly  leaped  for  joy — I  did.  I 
did  not  like  to  think  of  you  in  the  deep  waters.  I  wanted  to 
see  you  again.  I  wanted  to  see  if  you  were  as  pretty  as  ever — 
ha,  ha!  We  strong-hearted  men  don't  like  to  give  up  a  plan; 
so  when  I  came  back,  I  stopped  and  watched  my  opportunity. 
No  matter  how — I  saw  you — and  you  looked — ha,  ha! — a 
thousand  times  prettier  than  you  were  before — you  did." 

"  Stop,"  cried  Linda,  burning  indignation,  consuming  her 
fears ;  "  I  will  not  hear  such  odious  language.  Tell  me  what 
you  wanted  of  my  child  ?  what  benefit  you  expected  to  derive 
from  such  a  fiendish  act  ?" 

"I  thought  I  should  get  the  mother  in  my  power.  I  didn't 
want  the  pretty  brat — I  didn't.  If  your  child  were  lost,  would 
not  you  follow  some  secret  messenger  who  told  you  where 
your  darling  was  secreted  ?" 

"  Thank  heaven ! — oh,  thanks  be  to  heaven,"  exclaimed 
Linda,  "that  there  at  least  you  were  frustrated! — that  Ro 
land's  child  is  spared,  should  he  never  again  behold  its  un 
happy  mother !" 

"  Don't  be  so  excited,  my  dear.  There's  no  occasion  in  the 
world  for  it, — none  in  the  world.  Every  thing  has  been  done 
in  the  quietest  way  possible.  You  never  thought  who  the  old 
woman  was — did  you  ?  I  heard  them  talking  on  the  boat, 
how  good  you  were  to  the  poor  emigrants,  and  so  I  turned  into 
one  myself — that's  all.  I  carried  you  as  carefully  through  tie 
woods  as  if  you  were  a  little  child,  and  I'll  be  as  tender  of  yoa 
all  the  days  of  my  life,  if  you'll  only  trust  me,  and  not  look  at 
me  as  if  I  were  such  a  hid€ous  monster — ha,  ha  !" 

Linda  imagined  she  really  beheld  a  redeeming  spark  of  ten 
derness  and  feeling  in  the  reddish-black  eye  burning  so  near 
her,  and  she  resolved  to  make  one  appeal  to  his  better  nature, 
3] 


206  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

before  she  threw  herself  a  helpless  victim  on  the  bosom  of 
Omnipotence. 

"  McLeod,"  said  she,  turning  full  upon  his  face  her  hea 
venly  and  entreating  eyes,  "I  trusted  you  once,  when  a  per 
secuted  orphan,  I  committed  myself  to  your  guardian  care. 
You  deceived  me — cruelly,  wantonly  deceived  me.  I  had  for 
given  you,  almost  forgotten  your  existence  in  the  happiness 
that  has  since  been  mine.  You  have  a  heart.  You  must 
have  one — else  why  should  you  care  when  you  thought  me 
plunged  in  the  burying  river  ?  Take  me  back  to  my  home, — 
take  me  back  to  my  child.  By  the  mother  that  bore  you, 
restore  me  to  my  child.  It  shall  learn  to  bless  you  with  its 
lisping  tongue.  I  will  bless  you, — Roland  will  bless  you,  in 
stead  of  avenging  his  wrongs.  Heaven  will  bless  you,  and  till 
with  favours  your  relenting  hand.  I  see  you  are  touched.  I 
see  you  have  a  heart.  Unbar  those  windows,  open  that  prison- 
door,  and  set  me  free." 

She  rose  in  the  energy  of  speaking,  and  clasping  her  beauti 
ful  hands,  the  weapon  she  had  so  carefully  guarded,  and  now 
momentarily  forgotten,  dropped  to  the  floor,  and  the  fire-light 
sparkled  on  the  gleaming  steel. 

"  What  is  that?"  cried  he,  springing  forward;  then  clap 
ping  his  hand  to  his  girdle,  exclaimed,  "  ha,  ha !  my  knife.  How 
came  you  by  it,  you  little  blood-thirsty  deceiver?  I've  caught 
you  now — I  have." 

Before  he  could  seize  the  weapon,  for  he  was  stout  and 
clumsy  in  his  motions,  Linda  had  grasped  it  with  her  right 
hand,  and  held  it  glittering  above  her  head. 

"  'Tis  mine !"  she  cried,  her  eyes  flashing  with  the  electric 
plendour  of  passion ;  "  'tis  mine  !  Heaven  threw  it  in  my 
way,  and  I  will  relinquish  it  only  with  life.  Fear  me — for  I 
am  armed.  Fear  me — for  you  know  not  what  insulted  wo 
manhood  dares  to  do.  I  have  pleaded  to  ears  of  stone — to  a 
heart  of  iron.  I  will  plead  no  longer — I  am  strong — I  defy 
your  power." 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  207 

As  Linda  thus  stood  with  uplifted  hand,  grasping  the  glit 
tering  knife,  her  brow  contracted  by  the  intensity  of  her  reso 
lution,  her  eye  dark  with  indignant  fire,  her  hair  wildly  waving, 
and  her  left  hand  gathering  the  crimson  drapery  over  her  bo 
som,  she  might  have  been  taken  for  a  young,  avenging  Medea. 
The  Scotchman,  with  the  cowardliness  of  guilt,  quailed  before 
her,  and  dared  not  attempt  to  wrest  the  knife  from  her  despe 
rate  grasp.  He  glanced  at  the  door,  as  if  he  would  like  to 
escape  from  the  victim  he  had  betrayed  into  his  power, — so 
mean  and  dastardly  is  villany  when  it  meets,  face  to  face,  a 
pure,  undaunted  spirit.  But  even  while  he  quailed,  he  more 
intensely  admired,  and  determined  to  guard  her  with  double 
vigilance.  He  had  no  desire  that  she  should  kill  herself  or 
him,  as  in  her  present  frantic  state  she  might  do,  and  there 
fore  thought  it  expedient  to  soothe  and  capitulate,  satisfied 
that  he  had  her  in  his  power,  and  that  no  one  would  dream  of 
searching  for  her  in  that  haunted  and  accursed  spot. 

It  may  be  thought  strange  that  this  man  should  thus,  after 
the  lapse  of  years,  renew  a  persecution  so  peculiar  in  its  cha 
racter,  so  dogged  and  persevering.  But  there  are  instances 
where  a  whole  life  has  been  devoted  to  a  scheme  of  passion  or 
vengeance,  and  even  in  death  the  smouldering  fires  would  break 
forth.  The  personal  loathing  and  horror  which  Linda  mani 
fested  when  he  first  made  his  odious  addresses,  rankled  in  his 
memory,  and  even  when  he  believed  her  dead,  driven  to  des 
peration  by  his  treachery,  he  remembered  it  with  bitterness 
and  rancour.  It  was  not  because  he  had  a  heart  capable  of 
remorse,  that  he  had  fled  the  country,  but  he  feared  the  ven 
geance  of  Robert  and  Roland,  and  he  deemed  "  discretion  the 
better  part  of  valour."  The  tale  he  had  told  Linda  was  true. 
The  sight  of  her  magnificent  residence  excited  his  curiosity 
Lurking  in  ambush  in  the  deep  shades  that  surrounded  Rosa- 
villa,  he  beheld  her  in  the  fair  beauty  of  womanhood ;  and  the 
love  he  had  formerly  cherished — for  he  loved  her  as  much  as 
such  a  selfish,  sordid  being  can  love — awakened,  mingled  with 


208  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

the  most  vindictive  and  rancorous  feelings.  His  capture  of  the 
child  was  a  sudden  suggestion  of  Satan.  There  was  nothing 
premeditated  in  the  act ;  he  was  skulking  to  watch  for  a  nobler 
prey.  But  after  being  so  unexpectedly  foiled  by  the  "  tall 
fiery  boy/'  as  he  still  called  Robert,  he  vowed  he  would  move 
heaven  and  earth  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  design.  He 
had  laid  his  plans  warily,  resolving  to  keep  Linda  secreted  in 
the  haunted  hut,  till,  properly  disguised,  he  could  carry  her 
away  in  some  obscure  boat,  to  a  wild  spot  in  the  boundless 
West. 

She  was  now  in  his  power.  The  young  girl  who  had  scorned 
and  defied  him  on  the  bosom  of  the  winding  Alabama — the 
wedded  wife  enthroned  in  wealth  and  luxury  on  the  shores  of 
the  lordly  Mississippi;  in  spite  of  the  triple  guardianship 
which  protected  her  in  her  husband's  absence ;  in  spite  of  the 
strong  arms  of  Tuscarora  stretched  boastingly  from  his  wig 
wam  cabin  to  the  orange  bowers  of  Rosavilla;  in  spite  of 
Aristides,  that  antiquated  literary  baby,  enclosed  within  in 
verted  commas ;  in  spite  of  Robert,  the  lover-brother,  the  hypo 
critical  minister,  the  pretended  missionary,  the  wolf  in  sheep's 
clothing, — "  yes  !  in  spite  of  all  these/'  said  the  exulting  vil 
lain,  "he  had  her  in  his  power." 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

"  I  WONDER  what  detains  Linda  so  long  ?"  said  Nora,  feeling 
a  little  impatient  for  Robert  to  continue  his  reading.  "  I 
would  not  like  to  be  a  housekeeper,  to  be  called  away  so  often 
from  the  most  interesting  occupations." 

'Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does, 
Blessing  and  blest  where'er  she  goes, 
Pure-bosomed  as  the  watery  glass, 
And  heaven  reflected  in  her  face/ 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  209 

as  Cowper  charmingly  delineates/'  said  Aristides.  "  Sucli  is 
our  lovely  hostess, — ca  perfect  woman  nobly  planned/  as 
Wordsworth  comprehensively  remarks." 

"  '  The  heart  of  her  husband  doth  safely  trust  in  her,  so  that 
he  shall  have  no  need  of  spoil/  "  as  Solomon  proverbially  de 
clares,  said  Nora,  with  one  of  her  long-slumbering,  magnetic 
smiles.  "  What  is  that?"  she  cried,  starting  up  and  trembling, 
for  something  heavy  came  rushing  into  the  hall,  uttering  sounds 
of  lamentation  and  wo. 

"  Oh,  Massa  Robert,  Massa  Robert !"  exclaimed  Aunt  Judy, 
standing  in  the  doorway  and  wringing  her  hands;  "come 
along,  for  the  blessed  Jesus'  sake,  come  along,  and  see  what 
a  Lord  a  mercy  be  the  matter.  She's  gone,  sure  as  I  be  live  to 
tell  it.  Oh,  lordy !  Poor  old  Judy !  Oh,  mercy,  what  the 
kingdom  will  become  of  us  ?" 

Robert  dashed  the  book  on  the  carpet,  and  sprang  through 
the  door,  heedless  that  he  hurled  poor  Judy  midway  in  the 


"  Where,  tell  me  where  ?"  he  cried,  snatching  Roland's  rifle 
from  a  rack  formed  of  the  branching  antlers  of  the  deer,  and 
rushing  to  the  front  of  the  verandah.  "Come  on/'  he  ex 
claimed  to  the  frightened,  bewildered  creature  stumbling  be 
hind,  almost  paralyzed  by  terror.  "  Come  on,  and,  in  God  Al 
mighty's  name,  tell  me  what  you  mean !" 

"Oh,  Massa  Robert !" 

"  Don't  call  me  master,"  cried  he,  stamping  his  foot  in  the 
frenzy  of  his  excitement.  "  Where  ?  Which  way  ?"  pointing 
to  the  right  and  left. 

"  That  way ;  that  way,  massa.     Only  think !  an  old  woman !" 

"A  woman  !"  cried  Robert. 

"Yes,  massa,  nothing  but  an  old  woman." 

Nora  and  Aristides,  who  had  followed  the  lightning  steps  ot 
Robert,  now  stood  by  him,  with  suspended  breath  and  colour 
less  faces,  listening  to  Aunt  Judy's  almost  incoherent  story. 
She  had  "  suspicioned,"  as  she  said,  the  old  woman,  and  stolen 


210  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

out  of  her  back  door,  and  crept  along  inside  of  the  fence,  to 
see  if  there  was  any  gang  in  waiting. 

"  I  seed  the  old  woman,  bent  e'enamost  double  as  she  was, 
snatch  her  up  like  a  born  baby,  and,  lord  a  mercy,  I  seed  a 
cloven  foot  all  afire,  when  he  kick  up  and  fly  off, — fly  off,  right 
round  that  corner.'' 

By  this  time  the  rifle  of  Aristides  was  in  his  hand,  for  he 
was  quite  a  Nimrod  of  the  woods,  and  it  was  astonishing  with 
what  a  fleet  step  he  followed  Robert,  who  scarcely  waited  for 
the  explanation  of  Judy,  mixed  as  it  was  with  sobs  and  be 
wailing  ejaculations. 

"  Let  some  of  the  strongest  black  men  come  with  lighted 
torches,"  said  Aristides,  checking  with  considerate  wisdom 
the  fiery  impatience  of  Robert.  "  The  woods  are  dark,  and 
we  must  not  rush  blindfold  after  the  foe ;  oh,  puella  infelix, 
we  will  rescue  thee,  or  die  in  the  attempt;  l  furor  arma  minis- 
trat,'  as  Virgil"— 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  don't  stop  to  quote  Latin  now," 
interrupted  Robert.  "  Here  Scipio,  Caesar,  light  your  torches 
at  that  blazing  knot,  and  follow  me — follow  to  the  rescue  of 
your  mistress." 

At  that  talismanic  word — for  Linda  was  adored  by  her 
slaves,  and  many  of  them,  roused  by  Judy's  outcry,  were 
gathered  round — the  torches  were  lighted  as  by  magic,  and 
waving  above  the  sable  brows  of  the  bearers. 

"  Let  me  go,"  cried  Nora,  who  was  in  the  midst  of  the  ex 
cited  group,  her  brain  whirling,  her  heart  palpitating  with  all 
the  wildness  of  terror;  "I  dare  not  stay — I  cannot  be  left 
alone  behind." 

"  Stay  with  Judy  and  guard  the  infant,"  exclaimed  Robert; 
and  his  voice  was  borne  back  to  her  by  the  night-breeze  he 
was  breasting,  with  a  rapidity  which  left  Aristides  and  the 
torch-bearers  far  behind. 

"  Guard  him  tenderly,  virgo  tenevunia,"  cried  Aristides, 
looking  back  compassionately  on  the  damsel,  while  he  panted 


A   SEQUEL   TO    LINDA.  211 

to  keep  up  with  Robert's  fiery  speed.  "  This  haste  is  unpro 
fitable,  for  we  shall  spend  our  strength  for  naught,  Oh,  juvenis 
vehemens;  thou  art  plunging  on  in  darkness,  leaving  thy  guide 
behind  thee." 

Robert  at  length  seemed  to  recover  his  senses,  and,  pausing 
at  the  edge  of  the  wood,  wiped  from  his  forehead  the  gather 
ing  moisture. 

"We  must  separate,"  he  cried,  as  soon  as  Aristides 
had  overtaken  him,  "  and  go  in  different  directions.  There 
is  a  boat  at  the  landing.  Would  they  dare  to  carry  her 
there?" 

"I  think  not,"  answered  Aristides;  "but  I  will  go  and 
ascertain.  The  captain  will  assist  in  the  search.  And  you — 
you  must  get  Tuscarora  to  be  your  guide.  He  can  find  the 
track  quicker  than  the  hunter's  dog." 

"  But  the  delay  I"  exclaimed  Robert. 

"  You  will  never  find  your  way  without  him.  I  will  haste 
to  the  boat — you  to  his  cabin.  Wait  not.  I  will  meet  or  fol 
low  you.  Oh,  nocte  infelix.  Deus  noster  refugiam." 

11  Go;  you  are  right,"  cried  Robert;  "he  must  be  with  us;" 
and  plunging  in  the  wood,  he  cut  a  diagonal  path  to  Tusca 
rora' s  cabin.  The  quick  and  ever-watchful  ear  of  the  Indian 
needed  but  one  appeal,  and  that  was  a  startling  one.  His  tall 
figure  almost  instantaneously  appeared  in  the  doorway.  The 
torch-light  flashed  upon  him,  gleaming  upon  the  polished  rifle- 
barrel  in  his  left  hand  and  the  glittering  hatchet  in  his  right. 
"  I  am  ready,"  he  exclaimed. 

In  as  few  words  as  possible  Robert  told  him  Judy's  story ; 
while  the  negroes  tossed  away  their  half-burnt  pine-knots,  and 
lighted  new  flambeaus,  that  made  a  glorious  illumination. 
Tuscarora's  long  strides  soon  brought  him  to  a  spot  which 
seemed  familiar  to  him.  He  paused,  and  his  keen,  hawk-like 
glance  pierced  the  night  shades  beyond  the  torches'  blaze. 

"  This  path  hath  been  lately  trodden,"  said  he,  turning  at 
once  in  a  new  direction :  there  was  no  path  visible  +o  any  eyes 


212  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

but  his.    "Ha!  what  is  this?"  pointing  to  some  shreds  of  scar 
let  fringe,  which  hung  from  a  bramble. 

"  'Tis  a  fragment  of  her  shawl/'  cried  Robert,  shuddering  at 
the  thought  of  the  rude  manner  she  must  have  been  hurried 
through  that  tangled  path.      "  Thank  God !   we  are  in  the 
ight  track." 

li  Expectans — expectavi"  exclaimed  a  voice  from  behind, 
and  Aristides,  who  had  been  following  the  gleam  of  the  flam 
beaus,  came  panting  and  breathless  in  the  rear;  "I  have 
looked  in  vain  for  the  missing  lamb.  In  te  dommi-speravi  ; 
1  In  thee,  0  Lord,  do  I  hope.'  " 

"  Hush !"  said  Tuscarora,  pointing  to  the  scarlet  shreds, 
twined  round  the  fingers  of  Robert.  "  Let  the  mouth  bo 
closed,  and  the  eyes  and  ears  open;  the  hand  upon  the  rifle; 
the  heart  upon  the  Great  Spirit." 

In  silence  they  followed  their  commanding  leader,  who, 
with  the  unwearied  step  and  keen  sagacity  of  his  race, 
threaded  almost  impervious  labyrinths,  as  if  a  map  were 
before  him  guiding  his  course.  Another  fragment  of  scarlet 
fringe  and  a  shred  of  white  lace  were  seen  by  the  Indian's 
ubiquitous  glance,  confirming  them  in  the  direction  they  had 
taken.  Tuscarora  knew  where  the  haunted  hut  was  situated. 
He  had  explored  it  in  his  forest  rambles,  for  his  lofty  spirit 
was  above  the  influence  of  superstitious  fear.  He  believed 
the  villain  who  sought  concealment  for  crime,  if  he  were  awaro 
of  the  existence  of  this  spot,  accursed  by  murder,  would  seek 
it,  secure  from  intrusion  or  detection. 

They  reached  the  bank  of  the  dark,  turbid,  and  now  bridg- 
less  stream.  Tuscarora  paused,  and,  looking  round,  extended 
his  right  hand,  which  still  grasped  the  hatchet,  to  some  old 
planks  that  lay  rotting  on  the  bank;  Aristides  and  Robert 
instinctively  took  the  torches  from  the  negroes,  while  they 
bridged  the  stream  with  the  damp  and  slippery  boards.  As 
soon  as  they  had  crossed — 

"  Remain  here,"  said  Tuscarora,  in  a  low  voice  to  Robert; 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  213 

"  remain  in  perfect  silence,  while  I  go  forward  and  explore. 
Come  when  you  liear  me  shout,  but  not  before.  The  lion 
hushes  his  roar,  lest  he  be  robbed  of  his  prey." 

It  was  difficult  for  Robert  to  restrain  the  burning  impa 
tience  which  urged  him.  to  rush  forward  to  the  rescue.  Now, 
they  had  reached  the  place  which  seemed  the  goal  to  which 
Tuscarora  was  bound,  his  hopes  died,  and  cold,  shivering 
dread  seized  him.  The  scarlet  fibres,  twisted  round  his  fin 
gers,  looked  like  streaks  of  blood,  and  seemed  significant  of 
her  fate.  What  monster,  clad  in  woman's  garb,  had  forced 
her  with  such  unheard-of  audacity  from  the  sanctities  of  home, 
and  for  what  fell,  demoniac  purpose?  He  thought  not  of 
McLeod.  He  had  forgotten  him.  The  last  time  he  had 
heard  of  him  was  in  the  heath-clad  hills  of  his  native  country. 

"  I  will  follow  you/'  said  he  to  the  commanding  Indian, 
— "  but  I  will  be  silent,  and  wait  your  signal." 

"It  is  good,"  muttered  Tuscarora,  yielding  to  the  dark 
determination  of  Robert's  resolute  eye;  "but  learn  the  un- 
echoing  step  of  the  red  men." 

Aristides,  completely  overcome  by  fatigue,  sunk  upon  the 
ground,  breathing  prayers — half  in  Latin,  and  half  in  Eng 
lish — for  the  safety  of  Linda.  The  negroes,  obeying  the 
lordly  Indian,  crouched  behind  a  fallen  tree,  extinguishing  at 
his  command  their  blazing  flambeaus;  while  Tuscarora  and 
Robert  went  silently  on  to  the  haunted  hut.  One  single 
glcarn  of  light  came  struggling  through  a  crack  in  one  of  the 
wooden  shutters — a  gleam  of  inhabitancy  and  hope.  Tusca 
rora,  who  was  in  advance,  was  the  first  to  bend  his  piercing 
eye  to  this  slender  thread  of  light;  but  slender  as  it  was,  it 
gave  a  glimpse  of  the  interior,  which  decided  him  at  once 
what  course  to  pursue.  Two  or  three  rapid  strides  brought 
him  to  the  door,  when,  swinging  his  hatchet  high  in  the  air, 
he  brought  it  down  with  tremendous  force  against  the  old, 
time-eaten  boards.  Another  and  another  blow:  he  rained 
them  down  till  the  iron  rings  gave  way,  the  wooden  bars 


214  ROBERT   GRAHAM: 

loosened,  and  the  door  fell  in;  with  a  crashing,  thundering 
sound,  at  McLeod's  feet. 

The  very  moment  of  the  attack  was  that  when  Linda 
clenched  with  desperate  hand  the  recovered  blade,  while 
McLeod  cowered  before  the  flashing  lightning  of  her  eye. 

At  the  first  stroke  of  the  hatchet,  the  coward  wretch  sprang 
forward,  for  the  door  was  behind  him,  and  uttered  a  yell  of 
horror.  So  sudden,  so  unexpected  was  the  blow,  it  seemed  as 
if  the  fiends  of  hell  were  let  loose  to  dog  his  steps.  Mortal 
man  could  not  have  tracked  him  at  that  midnight  hour.  He 
had  taken  the  pistols  from  his  belt  after  barring  the  door, 
believing  all  was  safe,  and  they  were  now  on  a  shelf  near  the 
entrance.  Snatching  the  knife  from  the  now  nerveless  hand 
of  Linda,  who  stood  immovable  as  a  statue,  even  when  the 
door  fell  crashing  near  her  feet,  he  prepared  to  defend  himself 
from  the  entering  foe. 

"  Dog — wolf — ruffian  !"  exclaimed  Tuscarora,  dashing  down 
the  rifle,  which  he  saw  would  be  useless  in  the  strife  before 
him.  "Dog — wolf!"  repeated  he,  rushing  toward  McLeod, 
his  dark  face  glowing  like  molten  copper. 

McLeod,  in  the  desperation  of  his  fear,  writhed  his  way 
toward  the  opening;  but  Tuscarora  seized  him  by  the  arm 
which  grasped  the  knife,  with  a  gripe  which  might  have  been 
felt  through  sinews  of  steel.  Even  if  he  could  have  escaped 
the  strong,  forest-born  antagonist  before  him,  Aristides,  armed 
with  his  rifle,  flanked  on  both  sides  by  the  stout  negro  guide, 
was  ready  to  arrest  his  flight.  Finding  himself  thus  fearfully 
beset,  he  fought  with  the  wild  fury  of  animal  instinct.  He 
leaped  up  on  the  neck  of  Tuscarora  like  a  huge  mastiff,  trying 
to  overthrow  him.  He  might  as  well  attempt  to  overthrow 
the  mountain  cliff".  Baffled  in  his  purpose,  he  gnashed  his 
teeth,  and  planted  them,  sharp  as  a  wolfs,  in  the  left  shoulder 
of  his  adversary. 

"Bloodhound!"  exclaimed  the  Indian,  writhing  a  moment 
under  the  fangs  of  the  villain;  then,  sweeping  his  body  down- 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  215 

ward,  he  tore  his  quivering  flesh  from  the  monster's  grasp, 
and  elevated  his  hatchet  over  his  head.  "  Crocodile  of  the 
Mississippi,  beware  !  You  have  whetted  your  teeth  on  the 
lion's  bones." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !"  shouted  McLeod,— "  ha,  ha,  ha  !"  While 
Tuscarora  was  releasing  himself  from  the  teeth  of  the 
bloodhound,  he  had  unconsciously  relaxed  his  grasp  of  his 
right  arm ;  and  McLeod,  stretching  the  liberated  sinews,  burst 
into  a  shout  of  fiendish  laughter,  and  plunged  the  knife  into 
the  brave  Indian's  side.  The  resistance  of  the  deer-skin  robe 
alone  prevented  it  from  reaching  his  heart.  Scarcely  had  the 
knife  pierced  the  magnanimous  Tuscarora,  who  had  sought  to 
disarm  the  wretch,  rather  than  to  kill  him,  than,  with  one 
stroke  of  his  hatchet,  he  cleaved  his  skull,  and  laid  him 
mangled  and  lifeless  at  his  feet. 

"  Spare  me,  great  God !  spare  me  this  I"  gasped  Linda, 
hiding  her  ashy  face  in  the  bosom,  of  Robert.  He  had  fol 
lowed  the  entering  steps  of  Tuscarora,  and  supported  her  in 
his  arms  during  this  terrible  scene.  He  would  have  carried 
her  out  at  once,  but  the  grappling  figures  were  in  the  doorway, 
making  their  egress  impossible.  Now,  making  a  stepping- 
stone  of  the  prostrate  and  bleeding  body  of  McLeod,  he  leaped 
over  the  threshold,  nor  stopped  till  he  had  reached  the  foot  of 
a  blasted  tree  at  some  distance  from  the  cabin.  The  naked 
branches,  twisted  and  scathed,  bent  in  the  direction  of  the 
hut,  and  seemed  to  beckon  him  onward. 

"  Father  of  mercies  !  I  thank  thee — I  bless  thee  !"  he  ex 
claimed,  sinking  on  one  knee,  still  sustaining  his  almost  life 
less  burden.  "  Terrible  are  thy  judgments,  but  just  and  true 
are  all  thy  ways,  0  thou  King  of  saints  !" 

Linda,  whose  senses  had  not  forsaken  her,  bent  her  knees  at 
his  side,  clasping  her  trembling  hands,  and  lifting  her  eyes, 
streaming  with  tears  of  gratitude,  to  heaven.  She  would  have 
welcomed  death  as  a  deliverer;  then  what  must  have  been  the 
revulsion  of  her  feelings,  when  she  found  herself  rescued  by 


216  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

him  whom,  next  to  Roland,  she  loved  and  honoured  !  She 
forgot,  for  the  moment,  that  it  was  the  valiant  arm  of  Tusca- 
rora  which  had  opened  the  door  of  release — which  had  laid  the 
oppressor  low.  She  remembered  only  that  Robert  was  near 
her,  guarding  and  sustaining  her,  restoring  her  again  to  her 
husband  and  her  child. 

"  Blessings — blessings  !"  was  all  she  could  utter,  as  if  she 
were  drawing  them  down  from  the  starry  skies,  to  rest  upon 
his  head. 

"Benedictus  Dominus  !"  cried  a  well-known  voice.  "  Bless 
the  Lord — Lauda,  ammo,  mea.  Praise  the  Lord,  0  my 
soul !"  and  Aristides  knelt  on  the  other  side  of  the  rescued 
Linda,  and,  taking  her  hand  in  both  his  own,  tears  gushed 
from  his  eyes.  He  had  shown  wonderful  self-possession 
throughout  the  hours  of  the  night;  but  now,  overcome  by 
gratitude  and  sensibility,  he  wept  like  a  child. 

"  You,  too,  dear  and  faithful  friend,  you  came  to  my  relief," 
said  she,  deeply  touched  by  his  emotion.  "  Heaven  forever 
bless  you  !  But  where'is  the  gallant  Tuscarora ?  Is  he  dead?" 
she  cried,  starting  up  with  sudden  alarm.  "And  has  he  died 
for  me  ?  I  remember  it  now — the  flashing  knife — the  mur 
derous  blow.  Oh,  tell  me  not  that  he  has  fallen  in  the 
bloody  strife  !" 

Shuddering  with  horror,  she  turned  toward  the  hut,  when, 
advancing  close  to  the  spot,  she  beheld  Tuscarora  himself; 
and  she  could  see,  by  the  light  glimmering  from  the  cabin, 
that  his  wampum  belt  was  widened,  and  passed  in  double  folds 
over  his  heart.  She  could  see,  too,  where  the  blood  had 
treamed  over  his  deer-skin  robe. 

"  Welcome,  brave  Tuscarora!"  she  said,  a  glow  of  gratitude 
warming  her  chilled  heart.  "  Thanks  be  to  God,  that  your 
life  is  spared !  I  feared  it  was  sacrificed  for  me." 

"  Had  the  sacrifice  been  needed,  it  should  not  have  been 
withheld,"  answered  the  Indian,  leaning  on  his  rifle,  which  he 
now  grasped  in  his  left  hand.  "The  God  of  Christians  has 


A   SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  217 

watched  over  us  both,  my  sister.  For  a  few  moments  the 
heart  of  the  strong  was  weak  from  the  flowing  blood,  but  my 
learned  brother/'  looking  at  Aristides,  "  stanched  it  with  the 
hand  of  skill,  and  the  wound  bleeds  no  more." 

"  I  fear  you  suffer  still,"  said  Linda.  "  It  is  not  the  first 
time  that  noble  hand  has  been  dyed  in  blood  for  me.  Oh  !" 
she  added,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  anguish,  "  I  seem  born  to  give 
sorrow  and  trouble  to  all  who  love  me,  to  drag  them  to  the 
threshold  of  death." 

((  Say  not  so,  dear  Linda,"  said  Robert,  on  whose  arm  she 
leaned,  scarcely  able  to  sustain  her  exhausted  frame  ;  "  we  are 
all  willing  to  die  in  your  defence,  but  it  is  your  enemy  who  is 
fallen — your  friends  are  spared." 

"I  am  grateful,"  she  answered,  faintly;  "but  it  is  dreadful 
to  be  the  cause  of  bloodshed,  strife,  and  death." 

"I  did  not  wish  to  slay,"  cried  the  Indian,  solemnly;  "the 
Mighty  Spirit,  who  sees  my  heart,  knows  it  is  innocent  of  the 
blood  of  the  white  man.  But  it  is  time  that  we  leave  this 
accursed  spot.  The  damps  of  midnight  will  injure  your 
sister's  health.  We  must  prepare  a  way  for  her  return." 

"I  will  carry  her,"  cried  Robert :  "as  I  alone  am  able,  the 
office  devolves  on  me." 

"  My  young  brother  forgets  the  wound  from  which  he  has 
so  lately  suffered,"  said  Tuscarora,  leaning  more  heavily  on  his 
rifle.  "  It  is  a  weary  path  through  the  woods." 

"I  can  walk,"  said  Linda.  "I  am  strong;  and  when 
weary,  I  can  sit  down  and  rest." 

But  even  as  she  spoke,  her  limbs  bent  under  her,  and  she 
would  have  fallen,  had  it  not  been  for  the  supporting  arm  of 
Robert. 

"  Let  my  learned  brother  go  to  the  cabin,  and  bring  thence 
a  chair,  and  a  deer-skin,  which  lies  upon  the  bed,"  said  Tus 
carora  ;  "  we  will  make  a  carriage  which  Lapio  and  Caesar  can 
carry,  while  we  walk  before  and  bear  the  torches.  It  is  good." 

"  Oh,  yes !"  cried  Linda;  inexpressibly  relieved ;  for  every 


218  ROBERT    GRAHAM  : 

moment  added  to  her  conviction  that  she  had  not  strength  *•> 
walk,  and  she  could  not  think  of  suffering  Hubert  to  carry  her 
such  a  weary  distance.  The  strong  arm  of  Tuscarora  was 
weak,  or  he  would  never  thus  have  bowed  his  upright  form, 
and  Aristides  was  already  overcome  with  fatigue. 

While  Aristides  went  for  the  chair,  and  the  negroes,  embold 
ened  by  his  presence,  rekindled  the  torches  at  the  haunted 
hearth,  Robert  insisted  on  conveying  her  in  safety  over  the 
stream. 

"  If  Roland  were  here,  I  should  not  be  such  a  burden  to 
others/'  said  Linda,  dejectedly,  as  they  crossed  the  dark  ravine, 
while  the  gurgling  waters  seemed  to  murmur,  t(  murder — mur 
der,"  in  her  excited  ear;  "but  in  his  absence,  to  whom  should 
I  turn  but  to  thee,  Robert,  my  brother  and  my  friend  ?" 

"  To  whom,  indeed,  Linda !"  repeated  he,  involuntarily 
drawing  her  closer  to  him.  "  Repine  not,  that  I  am  permitted 
to  act  as  his  representative,  since  in  so  doing  I  am  but  re 
deeming  a  pledge  given  to  him  before  his  departure.  In  joy 
and  safety  you  need  me  not,  Linda.  Refuse  not,  then,  in  the 
hour  of  darkness  and  danger,  my  guardian  arm,  my  protecting 
care." 

"  Refuse,  Robert !  do  I  not  cling  to  you  as  my  safeguard 
and  my  strength  ?  But  say  not  that  it  is  only  in  danger's 
hour  I  turn  to  you.  There  is  no  joy  your  friendship  cannot 
heighten,  as  there  is  no  sorrow  your  sympathy  could  not 
relieve." 

Robert  sighed. 

"  You  are  weary  even  now,"  she  said,  anxiously,  "  but  in  a 
few  steps  you  will  touch  the  opposite  bank.  How  the  plank 
trembles  beneath  us !" 

She  gave  one  backward  glance  to  the  haunted  hut,  and 
Robert  felt  the  vibration  of  terror  that  shook  her  frame. 

"  He  will  never  harm  thee  more,  Linda." 

"  I  thought  not  of  myself.  But  will  he  be  left  unburied 
there?" 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  219 

"  Think  not  of  him.  Leave  every  thing  connected  with 
this  dark  transaction  to  Tuscarora  and  myself.  Nothing  shall 
be  neglected  which  Christian  duty  requires." 

"  But  will  not  he,  the  generous  Tuscarora,  suffer  ?  Will  he 
not  be  arraigned  as  a  murderer,  just  and  righteous  as  was  the 
deed  ?" 

"  Fear  not,  Linda.  With  far  less  provocation,  he  would  be 
acquitted  of  the  shadow  of  blame.  No,  believe  me,  the  noble 
Indian  cannot,  will  not,  suffer  for  an  act  justified  by  the  laws 
of  self-preservation,  as  well  as  justice." 

Comforted  by  this  earnest  assurance,  Linda  yielded  herself 
gratefully  to  her  novel  conveyance,  the  fur-covered  chair;  and 
so  gently  and  carefully  was  she  carried  along,  that  her  weary 
eyes  closed  in  a  light  slumber  before  she  arrived  at  the  gates 
of  Kosavilla. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  Robert's  declaration  was 
verified  with  regard  to  the  safety  of  Tuscarora ;  but  Linda 
never  knew  how  much  he  suffered  from  his  wounded  side ;  or 
how,  when  he  reached  his  cabin,  he  fell  prostrate  across  the 
threshold  from  pain  and  exhaustion.  The  morning  found 
him  up  and  girded  for  the  events  of  the  day ;  "  The  son  of 
the  wilderness  scorns  to  complain." 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

"AND  must  you  leave  us  so  soon,  my  brother?" 
Weeks  had  passed  since  the  terrible  scenes  recorded  in  the 
last  chapter,  when  Linda  uttered  these  words,  rather  as  a 
melancholy  assertion,  than  as  a  question  requiring  an  affirma 
tion.  "Must  you  indeed  leave  us?  Ah,  how  closely  joy 
and  sorrow  are  allied !  Yesterday,  the  tidings  of  Roland's 
safe  arrival,  his  triumphant  success,  and  the  prospect  of  his 


220  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

speedy  return,  filled  me  with  unutterable  joy.  To-day,  you 
receive  summons  to  depart.  Roland  will  come  back,  and  you 
will  not  be  here,  that  he  may  thank  and  bless  you  for  being 
our  guardian  and  our  protector.  I  knew  that  you  could  not 
remain;  that  sacred  duties  must  call  you  from  us;  but  are  we 
ever  prepared  to  give  up  '  the  society  of  the  friend  we  love  ?' 
Oh,  never !" 

"  I  have  been  expecting  the  summons/'  answered  Robert, 
"and  I  ought  to  rejoice:  for  the  bread  of  heaven  must  be 
earned,  not  alone  by  the  toiling  limb  and  the  delving  hand, 
but  in  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  of  religious  labour.  I 
have  been  idle  too  long.  The  sinews  of  my  spirit  are  relaxed. 
Better,  far  better,  Linda,  the  girdle  of  sackcloth  than  the 
folding  of  down  for  the  pilgrim  of  life." 

"  You  have  not  been  idle,  Robert.  You  have  been  diffusing 
blessings  on  all.  You  have  been  indispensable  to  our  happi 
ness,  our  security,  and  our  peace.  I  know  I  ought  not  to 
repine;  but  I  cannot  be  reconciled  to  your  departure.  My 
hold  on  earthly  treasures  seems  less  and  less  secure.  We 
have  had  such  a  thrilling  lesson  of  the  uncertainty  of  life ! 
It  seems  as  if  every  golden  link  of  love  hangs  loosely  in  the 
chain,  that  once  appeared  of  iron  strength.  A  little  while  ago, 
I  thought  death  only  could  rob  me  of  my  boy;  yet  who  could 
thiuk  of  death,  that  looked  on  his  bright  and  rosy  infancy  ? 
And  yet  I  tremble,  even  now.  One  moment  he  was  sporting 
in  the  sunbeams — the  next  in  a  ruffian's  hands  !  And  I,  how 
securely  I  sat,  in  this  very  room,  in  the  bosom  of  home,  little 
dreaming  that  a  demon  was  waiting  at  my  own  door  to  plunge 
me  into  unimaginable  horrors.  That  dreadful  night ! — the 
lonely  hut ! — the  exulting  villain  ! — the  cleaving  weapon  ! — 
the  bleeding  body  !  0  God !  I  never,  never  shall  forget  them !" 

Pale  and  shuddering,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
to  shut  out  the  horrible  images  that  night  after  night  haunted 
her  pillow,  and  whose  daily  recollection  unsheathed  her 
nerves,  and  made  them  thrill  with  agony. 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  221 

"  You  promised  to  forget  all  these,  Linda/'  said  Robert,  in 
soothing  accents,  "or  to  remember  the  past  only  as  an  altar 
of  gratitude  and  praise.  The  more  awful  the  danger,  the 
more  sublime  the  deliverance." 

"  I  know  it,  Robert;  and,  next  to  God,  I  owe  my  deliver 
ance  to  you." 

"  Not  to  me.  You  forget  the  brave  Indian  who  so  nobly 
avenged  you.  His  unerring  instinct  guided  us  in  the  path  to 
your  rescue.  His  arm  of  strength  burst  open  your  prison- 
doors,  and  laid  the  villain  low." 

"I  feel  all  that  I  owe  him,  Robert;  but  I  saw  no  one  but 
you  rushing  to  save  me  in  my  soul's  extremity.  It  was  you 
who  carried  me  from  the  scene  of  blood  and  strife.  It  was 
you  whose  prayers  were  the  wings  of  my  fainting  spirit,  and 
who  stood  to  me  in  the  place  of  the  absent  Roland.  What  I 
owe  to  him — the  brave,  the  noble,  the  gallant  Tuscarora — I 
never  can  repay.  What  I  owe  to  you,  Robert'7 — 

"  Speak  not  of  gratitude  to  me,  beloved  sister  !  it  wounds — 
it  oppresses  me.  You  owe  me  nothing — altogether  nothing  ! 
Exalt  not  my  services  to  your  husband,  I  pray  you.  Let 
them  be  forgotten  in  Tuscarora' s  superior  claims;  in  Aristides 
Longwood's  equal,  if  not  greater,  exertions.  If  you  knew, 
Linda,  how  your  gratitude  humbled  me  !" 

"  Then  I  will  hide  it  in  my  heart.  But  I  owe  you  one 
debt,  which  I  must  acknowledge.  You  have  brought  me 
nearer  the  kingdom  of  heaven  by  your  precepts  and  example. 
Your  holy  conversation  has  fallen  like  the  dew  of  Hermon  on 
every  Christian  grace,  and  revived  their  languishing  bloom. 
They  had  been  melting  in  the  unclouded  sunshine  of  my 
happy  home.  But  your  influence,  our  Julia's  translation  to 
heaven — for  it  did  not  seem  like  death, — the  awful  perils 
which  I  have  escaped,  have  made  me  feel,  as  I  have  never 
done  before,  my  dependence  on  my  Saviour  and  my  God 
Think  of  me  when  you  are  gone,  Robert.  Remember  me  in 
every  prayer  you  wing  on  high.  The  eastern  gales  will  come, 
32 


222  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

I  know,  fraught  with  the  incense  of  devotion  offered  up  for 
me  and  mine.  As  for  me, — but  you  do  not  need  niy  weak  and 
trembling  prayers,  angel-strengthened  as  you  are,  clad  in  the 
armour  of  the  gospel,  and  armed  with  the  sword  of  the  Spirit 
of  God, — what  can  I  do  or  ask  for  you  ?" 

"Am  I  a  hypocrite?"  exclaimed  Robert,  with  sudden  vehe 
mence,  rising  and  walking  to  the  window,  while  a  dark  cloud 
swept  over  his  countenance.  "  Have  I  ever  lifted  myself  above 
human  frailties  and  passions,  that  you  thus  set  me  apart  from 
sympathy  and  prayer  ?  Have  I  enthroned  myself  on  a  mount 
of  holiness,  high  above  the  storms  and  temptations  of  the  val 
ley  of  life  ?  Where  are  the  strengthening  angels  that  surround 
me  ?  Where  is  the  flaming  sword  of  the  Spirit  ?  The  armour 
of  the  gospel  of  peace  1" 

Linda  gazed  at  llobert  in  distress  and  alarm.  There  was 
something  so  strange,  so  unaccountable  in  the  vehemence,  the 
wildncss  of  his  manner,  she  feared  his  reason  was  forsaking 
him.  What  could  she  have  said  to  cause  such  violent,  such 
mysterious  agitation  ?  He  who  was  usually  so  gentle  and  self- 
possessed,  now  seemed  transformed  to  the  impassioned,  impetu 
ous  Robert  of  other  days. 

"  Have  I  made  you  angry,  dear  brother  ?"  she  asked,  in  a 
tone  of  such  deep  distress,  it  brought  him  immediately  to  her 
side.  His  face  was  very  pale,  but  it  was  calm,  unruffled  as  a 
tablet  of  marble. 

"No,  Linda;  forgive  me,  forgive  my  unpardonable  vehe 
mence.  If  you  knew  the  horror  I  feel  at  the  thought  of  hy 
pocrisy  !  Knowing  so  fully,  deploring  so  deeply  my  own  weak 
ness,  your  too  exalted  praises  fall  like  burning  coals  on  my 
naked  soul.  It  writhes  in  agony  of  humiliation." 

The  language  of  llobert  may  seem  exaggerated  to  some, — it 
certainly  did  to  Linda,  though  she  did  not  doubt  its  sincerity; 
but  she  knew  not  the  inner  warfare  that  was  wasting  his  heart's 
blood  on  its  secret  battle-ground. 

Destiny  seemed  to  have  placed  him  in  a  position  requiring 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  223 

the  strength  of  an  archangel,  and  he  was  but  mortal.  He  had 
thought  himself  strong  after  the  night  when,  like  Jacob,  he 
wrestled  and  prevailed,  when  he  had  resolved  to  sacrifice  his 
freedom  as  a  safeguard  from  temptation's  power.  But  the 
thrilling  circumstance  in  which  they  had  been  recently  placed, 
and  which  had  brought  them  in  more  intimate  communion;  the 
danger  which  she  had  incurred,  and  which  had  thrown  her  on 
his  immediate  guardianship;  her  ardent  gratitude  and  confiding 
affection,  her  unlimited  trust  in  his  excellence  and  piety,  her 
guileless  and  endearing  manners,  her  unsuspicious  reliance  on 
his  brotherly  attachment — were  all  as  so  many  waves  pressing 
with  resistless  and  accumulating  force  against  the  wall,  the  im 
passable  wall  that  separated  him  from  her.  He  could  feel  it 
vibrating,  shaking,  as  he  leaned  against  it  for  support,  and 
there  were  moments  when,  like  Samson,  his  spirit  was  tempted 
to  bow  itself  blindingly,  despairingly,  bringing  down  the 
mighty  pillars  of  Christian  faith,  and  crushing  itself  in  the 
ruins  it  made. 

Yes !  He  rejoiced  that  oceans  would  roll  and  mountains 
rise  between  them ;  rejoiced  to  think  he  was  required  to  make 
an  immediate  departure.  He  was  summoned  to  attend  the 
general  conference;  then  business  demanded  his  presence  at 
Pine  Grove,  preparatory  to  his  departure  for  India.  He  was 
to  resume  his  missionary  labours,  to  which  he  was  resolved  to 
devote  his  future  life.  For  a  little  while  he  had  contemplated 
a  different  sphere  of  duty,  but  God  had  not  willed  it  should 
be  so.  The  path  was  now  as  plain  before  him  as  the  track  of 
the  sun  in  the  burning  circle  of  the  zodiac. 

"  You  will  take  me  back  to  my  father's,"  said  Nora,  whose 
softened  heart  yearned  for  her  early  home. 

"And  leave  me  desolate,"  said  Linda,  reproachfully.  "  Wait, 
at  least,  till  Roland  comes.  He  will  provide  a  way  for  your 
return.  Or  wait  a  little  longer, — you  know  I  have  promised  to 
visit  you  in  the  spring." 

"I  cannot  remain  till  then/'  answered  Nora;  bhishing;  "but 


224  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

I  will  not  leave  you  till  Captain  Lee  arrives,  since  you  think  I 
keep  you  from  desolation.  I  should  like  to  meet  his  sunny 
smile  once  more.  Do  you  know,  Linda,"  with  a  flash  of  her 
wonted  levity,  "  I  have  some  hopes  of  being  his  second  wife !" 

Linda  smiled,  but  even  Nora's  kindling  vivacity  could  not 
remove  the  cloud  of  sadness  caused  by  Robert's  approaching 
departure.  She  expressed  her  sorrow  openly.  He  repressed 
his,  and  she  thought  him  almost  cold.  He  was  to  go  by  morn 
ing  light,  and  when  they  parted  at  night,  she  said,  attempting 
to  smile,  "  You  shall  not  cheat  me,  as  Roland  did.  I  shall  rise 
before  to-morrow's  sun,  to  bid  you  farewell." 

"Why  should  we  wish  to  say  so  sad  a  word,  Linda?" 

"  Though  sad  in  the  utterance,  it  is  precious  in  remem 
brance." 

"  Is  it  even  so  ?  Then  let  it  be  to-night.  I  shall  not  wait 
for  the  dawning.  Farewell,  Linda;  dear,  beloved  sister,  fare 
well  !  Believe  the  blessings  I  would,  but  cannot  utter." 

He  clasped  her  one  moment  in  a  hurried  embrace,  and  turned 
hastily  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  Robert!"  cried  the  weeping  Linda;  "is  this  indeed  a 
last  farewell?  Shall  we  not  meet  again,  my  brother?  Even 
in  this  world,  shall  we  not  meet  again  ?" 

"Yes,  we  shall  meet  again,  Linda,"  said  he,  drawing  his 
hand  from  hers,  and  raising  it  to  heaven.  "  Let  me  go,  my 
Bister ;  'tis  but  a  little  while." 

He  left  her ;  he  closed  the  door  that  he  might  shut  out  the 
sobs  of  her  unrepressed  sorrow.  He  hurried  through  the  hall 
with  a  quick,  agitated  tread,  fearful  lest  she  might  call  him 
back,  and  upbraid  him  for  the  brevity  and  coldness  of  his  last 
farewell.  Just  as  he  was  entering  his  chamber,  he  glanced 
toward  the  door  in  which  he  had  for  the  last  time  beheld  the 
living  Julia,  looking  back  upon  him,  as  it  were,  from  the  thres 
hold  of  the  tomb,  with  a  diadem  of  light  encircling  her,  em 
blematical  of  the  crown  of  glory  now  doubtless  enwreathing 
ner  brows.  She  seemed  to  stand  there  still,  smiling  with  im- 


A   SEQUEL   TO    LINDA.  225 

mortal  love,  for  all  the  rays  of  the  silver  lamp-light  gathered 
in  a  focus  round  the  image  pictured  there. 

"Oh,  my  God,  I  thank  thee!"  he  exclaimed,  sinking  on  his 
knees,  in  the  solitude  of  his  chamber:  " thine  is  the  victory, 
and  thine  be  the  glory.  It  is  over — the  conflict,  the  agony — 
and  thou  hast  not  forsaken  me.  Henceforth  I  consecrate  my 
self  anew,  body  and  soul,  to  thy  service.  The  smoke  of  the 
sacrifice  is  passing  away,  and  the  flame  rises  pure  and  bright 
toward  heaven. " 


CHAPTER  XY. 

WE  now  return  to  Roland  Lee,  who,  having  rescued,  by  the 
most  persevering  efforts,  his  benefactor  from  bankruptcy  and 
ruin,  has  embarked  in  the  noble  ship  Eagle, — one  of  the  most 
magnificent  vessels  that  ever  crossed  the  Atlantic. 

Roland's  heart  glowed  with  the  consciousness  of  successful 
exertion.  He  was  repaid  for  the  sacrifice  he  had  made,  in 
a  measure,  to  cancel  a  debt  of  gratitude,  and  now,  as  he  tra 
versed  the  deck,  knowing  that  every  wave  over  which  he 
floated  was  bearing  him  homeward,  and  lessening  the  distance 
that  separated  him  from  his  wife  and  child,  he  felt  as  a  true 
son  of  ocean  feels  when  given  up  to  its  boundlessness  and 
grandeur. 

Never  did  a  vessel  leave  port  under  more  auspicious  omens. 
Propitious  winds  swelled  the  sails,  and  the  resplendent  sun 
shine  seemed  reflected  from  billows  of  glass.  When  Roland 
left  New  Orleans,  he  had  chosen  a  ship  in  preference  to  a 
steamer,  that  he  might  know  something  of  a  sailor's  life. 
When  he  was  a  boy,  he  had  imagined  that  if  he  served  a  good 
apprenticeship  on  boats,  he  would  rise  step  by  step,  till  he  be 
came  master  of  a  man-of-war  •  thinking  a  ship  was  only  a 
larger,  mightier  boat; — built  for  the  ocean's  breadth  and  depth 


226  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

"Give  me  again  the  bird  of  the  sun!"  he  cried,  when  pre 
paring  for  his  homeward  voyage.  "  I  love  to  see  it  spreading 
its  white  wings  on  the  dark  green  waters.  I  love  to  hear  the 
winds  rushing  among  the  shrouds,  better  than  the  howling 
pipe  or  the  plunging  engine.  The  Belle-Creole  glides  over  the 
river  with  the  grace  of  a  goddess.  The  Eagle  sweeps  over  the 
deep  with  the  grandeur  of  a  god." 

It  might  be  supposed  that  Roland  would  have  chosen  the 
speediest  manner  of  crossing  the  ocean,  in  his  impatience  to 
be  reunited  to  Linda.  But  every  one  knows  the  strong  influ 
ence  of  early  passions.  His  first  passion  was  to  go  out  into 
the  "sea  in  a  great  ship."  Filial  affection  had  bound  him  to 
the  home  of  a  widowed  mother,  and  a  love  still  more  powerful 
added  to  this,  restrained  his  youthful  desire.  There  was  some 
thing  in  the  mere  aspect  of  a  ship  that  inspired  him,  that  sent 
the  blood  tingling  through  his  veins:  the  lofty  masts,  the 
spreading  sails,  the  myriad  ropes — ladders  for  the  gallant 
spirit — had  a  fascination  for  his  eye ;  and  the  very  thought  of 
throwing  himself  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  over  the  unfathom 
able  deep,  was  sublime  and  glorious.  Roland  was  born  for  a 
sailor,  and  though  circumstances  had  prevented  him  from  wed 
ding  the  ocean,  he  felt,  when  placed  as  he  now  was, — far  out 
of  sight  of  land — committed  to  the  power  of  two  mighty  ele 
ments, — that  the  sea  was  "his  home,  the  bark  was  his  bride." 
It  was  not  that  he  loved  Linda  less — oh,  no  !  The  love  of  the 
sailor  is  the  most  chivalrous,  exalted  passion  in  the  world. 
Woman  is  the  polar  star,  shining  on  the  deep  of  his  soul, 
to  which  he  turns  with  unwavering  devotion.  She  is  the 
load-stone  attracting  the  steel  of  his  spirit  to  the  sanctities  of 
home. 

Among  the  passengers  there  was  a  young  German  woman, 
who  frequently  came  on  deck  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  about 
the  age  of  the  little  Walton.  She  seemed  alone,  without  pro 
tection  or  friend — no  companion  but  this  little  child.  She 
would  sit  for  hours  gazing  on  the  waters,  her  face  turned  to 


A  SEQUEL   TO  LINDA.  227 

the  West,  with  a  wistful,  yearning  expression,  that  awakened 
the  sympathy  of  Roland.  Her  appearance  was  humble,  but 
an  air  of  modesty  and  refinement  gave  grace  to  her  homely 
apparel.  Though  the  child  bore  no  personal  resemblance  to 
Walton,  it  was  about  the  same  age ;  it  was  fair  and  innocent, 
and  unprotected  save  by  a  mother's  love;  and  Roland  never 
passed  it  without  a  yearning  of  the  heart,  and  a  tender  remem 
brance  of  his  own  beautiful  boy.  He  pitied  the  lonely  young 
mother,  and  frequently  relieved  her  of  her  maternal  care,  by 
taking  the  infant  in  his  arms,  and  making  it  his  companion  as 
he  walked,  the  deck,  and  he  held  him  up  to  catch  the  shrouds 
with  his  eager,  dimpled  hands.  The  child,  whose  name  was 
Willie,  grew  so  fond  of  him,  that  it  would  spring  at  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  and  smile  at  the  glance  of  his  eye  j  and  the  hum 
ble,  grateful  mother  felt  in  her  loneliness  that  she  had  a  pro 
tector  near.  She  told  him  her  history  in  a  few  words.  Her 
husband  left  her  about  a  year  before,  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
America.  He  was  to  send  or  return  for  her,  as  soon  as  he 
provided  a  means  for  their  support.  In  the  mean  time  her 
mother  died,  and  she  was  left  alone.  With  just  money  enough 
to  pay  her  passage,  she  had  started  to  join  her  husband  in  the 
New  World,  without  knowing  any  thing  of  his  locality — not 
knowing  even  if  he  lived.  She  asked  Roland  with  great  sim 
plicity  if  he  knew  a  German  of  the  name  of  Stillings,  in  New 
York. 

Though  Roland  knew  nothing  of  her  husband,  he  comforted 
her  with  the  hope  of  finding  him,  and  resolved  to  befriend  her 
and  her  infant  favourite,  should  they  be  left  to  desolation  and 
want. 

Every  day,  as  it  brought  him  nearer  and  nearer  his  native 
shores,  increased  his  impatience  to  see  his  wife  and  child.  Oh  ! 
that  he  had  indeed  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  he  could  rise 
on  untiring  pinions,  and  overcome  with  one  broad  sweep  the 
apparently  boundless  waves  !  The  winds  were  fair,  but  the 
gales  were  too  slow  for  his  restless  wishes.  Gladly  now  would 


228  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

he  have  exchanged  the  wings  of  the  wind  for  the  burning 
breath  of  steam. 

How  near  did  home  seem  when  the  American  shores  heaved 
in  sight !  With  what  thrilling  emotions  he  caught  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  Canadian  coast !  During  the  day  a  light  wind 
had  been  floating,  which  changed  near  sunset  to  a  strong  south 
erly  gale.  Dark,  steel-coloured  clouds  scudded  on  the  verge 
of  the  western  horizon,  but  the  sun  shone  out  at  its  setting 
with  a  burst  of  splendour,  that  changed  every  leaden  cloud  into 
a  mountain  of  burning  gold.  The  sea  was  one  bed  of  foam, 
whose  white,  feathery  surface  grew  ruddy  in  the  sunset  blaze ; 
and  the  mist  rising  from  the  foam  of  the  waves  looked  like  golden 
gauze  hanging  over  the  bosom  of  the  deep.  Sunbeams  sparkling 
on  this  dust  of  the  ocean,  converted  it  into  the  most  magnifi 
cent  drapery  imagination  can  conceive.  The  ship  seemed 
drifting  on  through  an  atmosphere  of  glory,  with  a  speed  that 
equalled  lloland's  ardent  wishes.  Exalted  by  the  wondrous 
splendour  and  grandeur  of  the  scene,  he  stood  upon  deck, 
baring  his  forehead  to  the  mighty  ocean  gale.  All  that  he 
had  ever  conceived  of  the  sublimity  of  the  sea  was  now  real 
ized.  But  it  was  only  a  flash  of  glory  that  vanished  with  the 
setting  sun.  The  golden  mountains  were  again  transformed 
to  a  dark  undulation  of  clouds,  and  the  sparkling  gossamer  to 
a  dull,  grayish  mist.  The  gale  grew  stronger  and  stronger, 
fewelling  at  length  into  such  stormy  gusts,  that  the  sailors  were 
ordered  to  reef  the  sails,  and  the  sound  of  the  silver  pipe,  call 
ing  the  hands  together,  was  heard  more  than  once. 

They  were  not  far  from  the  southern  coast  of  Newfound 
land,  and  the  wind,  which  had  suddenly  changed  to  an  east 
erly  blast,  came  roaring  behind  them  with  tremendous  force. 
If,  a  few  hours  before,  Holand  had  realized  all  he  had  ever 
conceived  of  the  magnificence  of  ocean,  he  now  experienced 
its  terror  and  its  might. 

He  did  not  apprehend  any  danger,  for  it  was  something  of 
which  he  never  thought  of;  but  he  knew  the  captain  was  pre- 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  229 

paring  for  a  stormy  night,  for  his  trumpet  voice  was  heard 
high  above  the  roaring  waves,  in  tones  of  unusual  authority 
and  decision.  He  knew  that  near  the  point  they  were  ap 
proaching  many  a  noble  vessel  had  been  wrecked,  and  that  it 
was  a  fearful  thing  when  man  had  to  battle  with  the  elements' 
,vrath. 

"  This  is  rough  business,  Joe,"  he  heard  one  sailor  call  out 
to  another,  on  the  hatchway.  "What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"  Just  what  might  be  expected.  We  started  on  a  Friday. 
Bad  luck  to  the  ship  that  does  it !" 

Roland  could  not  forbear  smiling  at  the  superstition  ex 
pressed  in  these  words,  though  the  wild  rocking  of  the  ship, 
the  howling  of  the  wind  through  the  shrouds,  and  the  scowl 
ing  aspect  of  the  heavens  convinced  him  that  it  was  not  a 
time  for  careless  insecurity.  He  folded  his  arms  involunta 
rily  over  his  breast,  as  if  to  shield  the  beauteous  image  en 
shrined  there  from  the  fury  of  the  coming  tempest.  Lifting 
to  heaven  his  darkened  eyes,  he  breathed  a  silent  prayer  to 
the  God  of  the  mariner  to  gather  the  winds  in  the  hollow  of 
his  hand,  and  spare  the  home-bound  bark.  Steadying  him 
self  against  the  mainmast,  he  watched  the  travail  of  the  deep, 
that  seethed  and  boiled  like  a  mighty  cauldron,  while  the 
vessel  strained  its  giant  sides,  and  tossed  upon  the  billows  in 
throes  that  threatened  to  rend  every  cord  and  rope  asunder. 

The  moon,  now  verging  toward  the  full,  suddenly  burst 
forth  above  the  black  cloud-rocks,  making  them  appear  of 
tenfold  blackness,  and  revealing  in  all  their  horrors  the  yawn 
ing  abyss  of  the  ocean.  All  at  once  the  vessel,  that  went 
plunging  from  billow  to  billow,  like  a  frantic  war-steed  amid 
the  war  and  strife  of  battle,  was  thrown  with  a  tremendous 
concussion  into  the  trough  of  the  sea,  making  a  terrific  rift, 
starting  the  sternpost,  and  tearing  away  the  rudder. 

From  this  moment  indescribable  confusion  and  horror 
reigned.  The  cry — "  a  rift,  a  rift !  a  leak,  a  leak  I"  was  an 
swered  by  the  hurrying  and  rushing  of  feet,  the  working  of 


230  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

the  pumps,  the  firing  of  the  minute-gun,  the  hoarse  oaths  of 
the  men,  and  the  shrieks  of  women  and  children,  crowding 
the  hatchway  and  clinging  to  the  spars.  But  all  these  fright 
ful  and  discordant  sounds  were  almost  drowned  in  the  mul 
titudinous  voice  of  the  angry  breakers,  dashing  against  the 
groaning  vessel,  and  throwing  over  it  a  cloud  of  drenching, 
blinding  spray.  Faster  than  the  pumps  laboured,  poured  into 
the  leak  the  rushing  sea.  The  gallant  vessel  must  sink,  and 
they  who  would  not  go  down  with  her  must  seek  safety  in  the 
lowering  boats. 

The  poor  German  woman,  clasping  her  child  franticly  to 
her  bosom,  threw  herself  wildly  at  Roland's  feet,  praying  him, 
for  God's  sake,  to  save  them.  Even  in  that  moment  of  agony, 
when  every  mountain  wave  that  dashed  against  them  threat 
ened  to  overwhelm  and  destroy,  when  Roland  beheld  a  watery 
grave  before  him,  instead  of  the  home  of  love  and  joy  to 
which  his  longing  spirit  turned,  he  was  not  insensible  to  the 
claims  of  compassion.  He  raised  the  weeping  mother,  and 
taking  little  Willie  from  her  trembling  arms,  promised  to  pro 
tect  them  while  life  lasted. 

"  Save  yourself"  cried  the  captain,  to  Roland  :  "  the  long 
boat  is  gone.  The  yawl  is  lowering.  Save  yourself,  for,  by 
the  eternal  God !  I  believe  this  is  your  last  chance." 

"And  you,  sir,"  said  Roland,  struck  with  the  stern,  re 
solved,  and  heroic  expression  of  his  countenance,  and  invo 
luntarily  grasping  his  hand  with  a  pressure  of  steel. 

"  I  stay  by  my  ship  to  the  last  I"  he  exclaimed ;  "  but  save 
yourself.  The  next  breaker  will  sweep  over  the  deck,  as  sure 
as  eternity  is  ready  to  engulf  you." 

Roland  was  about  to  say — "  I  will  not  leave  you — I  will 
share  your  fate,  whatever  it  be;"  but  the  thought  of  Linda,  of 
his  child,  stifled  the  declaration.  He  seemed  to  see  her  on  the 
thundering  breakers,  stretching  out  her  imploring  arms,  and 
entreating  him  to  save  himself,  for  the  love  of  God  and  her. 

k<  Linda,  Linda/'  he  exclaimed;  as  if  answering  her  wild, 


A   SEQUEL  TO   LINDA.  231 

heart-rending  appeal,  "wait  one  moment,  oh,  my  beloved, — 
next  to  these,  these  helpless  ones, — I  come." 

Seizing  the  rope,  which  the  captain  had  thrown  him,  he 
wound  it  round  the  waist  of  the  almost  fainting  woman,  and 
let  her  down  into  the  boat  just  as  it  had  heaved  up  on  a  giant 
billow,  then  tossing  the  child  into  the  arms  of  a  sailor,  he  was 
about  to  leap  from  the  deck ;  but  seeing  the  boat  was  already 
full,  incapable  of  containing  another,  without  endangering 
those  who  had  crowded  into  it  for  safety,  he  stopped,  and  the 
rocking  ship  sent  him  reeling  against  the  mast. 

"  Down  with  the  pinnace/7  shouted  the  captain,  in  a  voice 
of  thunder:  "one  more  chance  of  salvation.  Great  God  !  'tis 
too  late.  No.  Quick !  in  with  you  before  those  craven 
wretches.  Back,"  he  cried,  waving  his  hand  commandingly 
to  the  sailors,  who  were  rushing  over  each  other  to  reach  the 
boat,  "  back,  till  lie  is  safe,  or  I'll  scatter  your  brains  to  the 
four  winds  of  heaven." 

Roland  laid  his  hand  on  his,  with  a  restraining  gesture. 

"  Let  them  go,  their  lives  are  as  dear  to  them  as  mine  to 
me.  Almighty  Father  !  they  have  gone  down." 

As  he  spoke,  the  pinnace  was  sucked  in  by  a  roaring  vor 
tex,  and  the  bubbling  cries  of  the  drowning  mingled  with  the 
horrid  din  of  the  breakers,  and  the  wailings  and  shrieks  of  the 
tempestuous  gust.  Roland  was  a  noble  swimmer,  and  he 
would  have  plunged  into  the  ocean  at  once;  but  man  could  no 
more  have  breasted  those  mountain  waves  than  have  called 
them  into  existence.  Wrathful  whirlpools  were  boiling  and 
foaming  as  if  subterranean  fire  were  bursting  beneath. 

The  black-rifted  clouds  which  had  a  few  moments  before 
opened,  that  the  moon  might  look  down  in  pity  on  the  awful 
scene,  now  suddenly  closed;  but  its  silver  rays,  ere  they  were 
curtained  by  darkness,  played  on  Roland's  pale,  uplifted  brow. 
They  seemed  to  linger  momentarily  round  that  gallant  form, 
as  if  loath  to  yield  it  to  the  whelming  billows. 

"  Here,  here,"  cried  the  captain,  suddenly  emerging  from 


232  ROBERT   GRAHAM: 

the  hatchway,  where  he  had  disappeared  a  moment  before — and 
his  voice  sounded  hoarse  and  strange  in  the  roaring  tempest ; 
"  take  this  rope,  and  lash  yourself  to  that  broken  spar.  Here 
is  another  for  me.  Dead,  if  not  alive,  we'll  be  drifted  ashore. 
God  help  you  !  There,  make  it  fast." 

r.  At  the  time  he  was  speaking,  he  was  lashing  himself  to  a 
roken  spar,  and  Roland  instantaneously  followed  his  example. 
It  was  the  last,  the  only  chance  of  safety.  He  thanked  the 
brave  captain,  and  committed  himself  to  Him  who  maketh  the 
waves  his  chariot,  and  rideth  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

"  Oh,  Linda,"  he  cried,  from  the  innermost  depths  of  his 
soul,  stretching  out  his  arms  as  if  to  clasp  her  in  a  last  em 
brace;  "  oh,  my  beloved,  thou  comest  between  me  and  my 
God.  My  thoughts  should  only  be  of  heaven — my  hopes 
clinging  to  a  Saviour's  cross;  but  thou — thou,  too  dearly 
loved"— 

A  crash,  loud  and  terrific,  as  if  the  heavens  were  rent  asun 
der, — a  shock  like  the  earthquake's  throes !  The  noble  ship 
is  dashed  against  a  rock,  and  the  sea  rolling  in  thundering 
billows  over  its  mangled  corse.  Nothing  is  heard  but  the 
howling  of  the  tempest — the  roaring  of  the  breakers — the 
thunders  of  the  surge;  nothing  seen  but  a  blackened  sky,  a 
dark,  wild,  terrific  waste  of  waters,  and  a  dim  glimpse  of  the 
wrecked  and  shattered  Eagle. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"WE  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  unutterable  grief,  the 
agony  of  Linda,  when  the  papers  brought  the  tidings  which 
made  her  heart  a  grave — her  home  a  wilderness.  Yet  she 
clung  wildly  to  the  hope  of  Roland's  escape.  Though  his 
name  was  on  the  list  of  the  lost,  she  would  not,  could  not  be- 


A   SEQUEL    TO    LINDA.  233 

lieve  that  he  had  perished.  He  lived,  he  still  lived  for  her. 
He  had  been  drifted  to  some  unknown  coast — some  ocean 
isle.  Heaven  would  restore  him  to  her  arms — the  husband 
of  her  youth,  the  father  of  her  child — the  young,  the  noble, 
the  gallant  Roland. 

Her  mind,  jarred  by  the  suddenness  of  the  shock,  conceived 
he  wildest  designs.  She  would  go  herself  to  the  terrible 
catastrophe,  and  search  among  the  wave-washed  ruins  for  the 
body  of  her  husband.  Never,  never  would  she  be  convinced 
of  the  mournful  fact  till  she  had  seen  on  his  manly  brow  the 
signet  seal  of  death. 

"  I  will  go,  Oh,  uxor  infelicissima;  Oh,  most  unhappy  wife," 
said  the  grieved  and  sympathizing  Aristides.  "The  Lord, 
who  turned  the  waters  of  the  Red  Sea  into  walls  of  glass,  so 
that  the  children  of  Israel  could  walk  over  on  dry  land,  has 
still  command  over  the  angry  billows;  he  will  have  compas 
sion  on  thee,  filia  dolorosa — Oh,  daughter  most  mournful ; 
1  for  like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children,  even  so  the  Lord 
pitieth  those  who  fear  him/  as  the  Psalmist  piously  ex 
claims." 

"  Yes !  our  learned  brother  shall  go,  while  I  stay  to  guard 
the  dove,  whose  plumage  is  shattered  by  the  storm,"  said 
Tuscarora,  pierced  to  the  soul  by  the  sight  of  her  inconsolable 
anguish. 

"And  I  will  stay  to  weep  with  her,  for  I  know  not  how  to 
comfort,"  cried  Nora,  encircling  with  her  arms  the  weeping 
Linda,  and  pressing  her  pallid  cheek  with  the  tenderest,  gen 
tlest  sympathy.  Nora  was  a  comforter.  The  treasures  of  her 
heart  were  unlocked  by  sorrow  and  love,  and  it  was  astonish 
ing  what  riches  were  discovered  there.  The  enchanted 
cavern  of  the  genii  scarcely  contained  more  inexhaustible 
gems. 

The  following  letter  from  Robert  to  Linda,  written  some 
time  after,  gives  all  the  particulars  he  had  himself  gathered  of 
the  fate  of  Roland.  It  will  be  seen  that  he  had  anticipated 


234  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

the  mission  of  Aristides,  and  that  Linda  was  spared  hereafter 
the  agony  of  suspense : 

MY  BELOVED  SISTER: 

"  If  you  were  not  a  Christian,  I  should  not  dare  to  address 
you  at  a  moment  like  this.  Earth  has  no  consolation  for  a 
sorrow  like  yours.  Heaven  alone  can  comfort, — God  alone 
sustain.  I  have  just  returned  from  the  saddest  pilgrimage 
man  ever  accomplished.  Oh,  Linda,  you  have  not,  you  can 
not  have  cherished  hope;  yet  it  was  that  which  led  me  to  the 
place  where  God  manifested  himself  in  such  majesty  and  power. 
Better  is  the  certainty  of  evil  than  the  tortures  of  suspense.  We 
dare  not  wrestle  with  the  angel  of  Providence.  I  see  you 
kneeling  in  agony,  but  submission, — yielding  your  bleeding 
heart  to  the  smiting  hand.  I  see  you  drowned  in  tears;  but 
your  eyes  are  lifted  to  heaven.  '  It  is  the  Lord,  let  him  do 
what  secmeth  good  in  his  sight/  comes  struggling  up  from 
the  depth  of  your  stricken  spirit.  (  He  hath  given — he  hath 
taken/  and  he  will  again  restore. 

"But  cold  sounds  even  the  language  of  inspiration,  when  it 
falls  from  human  lips.  Could  I  see  you — but  I  could  not 
look  upon  your  grief.  I  had  not  dared,  Linda,  to  have 
intruded  on  the  sacredness  of  your  sorrow,  even  with  one 
word  of  sympathy,  knowing  it  must  be  unavailing;  but  I 
told  you  I  had  been  on  a  mournful  pilgrimage.  You  are 
prepared  for  the  result, — a  confirmation  of  your  unutterable 
loss.  But  there  is  comfort  even  in  our  darkest  woes.  The 
relenting  billows  gave  back  the  noble  form,  wrapped  for  a 
while  in  their  cold  embrace.  It  was  cast  upon  the  rocky  and 
barren  coast,  and  the  rugged  fishermen  wept  when  they  beheld 
so  fair  a  ruin.  They  made  a  grave  for  the  stranger  on  the 
wave-washed  shore;  but  he  sleeps  not  there,  beloved  sister. 
I  brought  with  me  the  sacred  relics,  and  have  committed  them 
to  the  care  of  tne  faithful  Aristides,  whom  I  met  on  my 
return.  Perhaps  they  have  already  arrived,  and  are  embalmed 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  235 

even  now  by  the  holy  tears  and  sighs  of  wedded  sorrow.  Oh, 
who  would  not  be  willing  to  die  to  be  thus  lamented,  thus  con 
secrated  by  memory,  thus  immortalized  by  love ! 

"  Could  the  life  of  him  you  loved  been  redeemed  by  mine, 
how  gladly  would  I  have  sacrificed  it,  to  save  you  the  anguish 
you  now  endure.  I,  the  lonely  and  unconnected — who  would 
mourn  for  me  ?  No  severed  affections  would  bleed  over  my 
ashes.  No  blossoms  of  love  be  blasted  by  my  doom.  Would 
to  God,  Linda,  I  had  died  for  Roland!  Would  to  God  I  had 
died  for  thee  ! 

"  There  is  one  circumstance  I  must  relate,  for  it  belongs  to 
the  memory  of  Roland,  and  consecrates  it  with  the  honours  of 
a  martyr's  doom. 

"  There  is  a  poor  German  woman  whom  I  took  under  my  pro 
tection,  who,  with  her  infant,  a  child  of  twelve  months,  was 
saved  from  the  wreck  by  him  a  few  moments  before  the  de 
struction  of  the  vessel.  He  might  have  saved  himself;  the 
captain  was  urging  him  with  generous  zeal  to  leap  into  the 
boat,  the  only  boat  which  reached  the  shore,  but  he  refused  till 
they,  that  poor  woman  and  helpless  babe,  were  rescued.  He 
let  her  down  with  his  own  hands — herself  and  her  child.  His 
last  act  was  one  of  self-sacrificing,  heroic  benevolence.  In  imi 
tation  of  his  divine  Master,  he  died  that  others  might  live. 
Oh,  my  sister,  is  it  not  glorious  thus  to  die  ? 

"The  woman  and  child,  who  have  become  precious  by  the 
costly  price  paid  for  their  preservation,  are  now  in  New  York, 
where  she  has  gone  in  search  of  her  husband.  I  gave  her 
your  direction,  that  if  in  want  or  sorrow,  she  might  apply  to 
you.  I  also  enclosed  hers  to  you,  unknown  to  herself.  Have 
I  not  anticipated  your  heart's  wishes  ?  One  thing  more,  Linda, 
and  I  have  done.  I  approach  the  subject  with  a  trembling 
hand;  a  miniature  of  yourself  was  found  on  the  lifeless  bosom, 
devoted  in  life,  faithful  in  death  to  you.  The  fisherman  who 
found  it  gave  it  to  my  keeping,  and  I  thus  identified  the 
body  of  my  friend.  I  have  dared  to  keep  it  as  a  memento  of 


236  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

both.  If  you  demand  it,  as  something  too  hallowed,  by  the 
awful  circumstances  in  which  it  was  discovered,  to  belong  to 
any  but  yourself,  it  shall  be  immediately  restored,  as  it  is  now 
religiously  guarded.  But  if  you  are  silent,  I  will  carry  it 
with  me  to  my  missionary  home,  as  a  memorial  of  your  friend 
ship  and  sisterly  love.  Pure  as  the  incense  of  my  morning 
and  evening  sacrifice  shall  be  the  memories  clustering  round 
this  precious  image.  No  thought  which  angels  might  not 
sanction  shall  agitate  the  heart  that  now  throbs  beneath  it.  It 
shall  be  a  talisman  from  temptation,  a  pledge,  that  though 
dedicated  to  heaven,  there  is  one  link,  pure  and  holy,  that  still 
binds  me  to  earth. 

"And  now,  Linda,  beloved  sister  of  my  heart,  farewell! 
Forgive  the  tear  that  blots  that  sad,  sad  word.  When  time 
shall  have  softened  the  bitterness  of  your  grief,  and  you  can 
spare  one  thought  from  the  grave  of  Roland,  remember  him 
whose  prayers  will  daily  rise  to  God  for  you,  beyond  the  Indian 
seas.  I  will  write  again,  if  my  solitary  life  is  prolonged.  But 
if  this  is  the  last  token  you  ever  receive  from  your  brother  and 
your  friend,  if  I  am  doomed  to  sleep  in  the  unfathomable  caves 
of  ocean,  or  to  make  my  last  bed  in  the  tropic  groves  of  Hin- 
dostan,  mourn  me  not,  for  sweet  will  be  the  rest  found  beneath 
the  winding  waters  or  the  burying  sod.  To  time,  the  great 
consoler — religion,  the  Divine  comforter — to  a  guardian  God,  a 
pitying  Saviour,  a  holy,  healing  Spirit,  I  commit  thee,  in  the 
heavenly  hope  of  a  blessed  reunion.  ROBERT." 

"We  will  now  draw  a  veil  over  the  shades  of  Rosavilla,  leav 
ing  its  mourning  mistress  to  "Time,  the  great  consoler/'  to 
"  Religion,  the  divine  comforter."  Emily  Carlton  hastened  to 
her  friend  as  soon  as  she  heard  the  sad  history  of  Roland's 
death;  and  Nora,  who  had  been  a  ministering  spirit  in  Linda's 
darkened  home,  returned  to  her  father's  house.  Not  very  long 
was  she  permitted  to  remain  there,  for  Henry,  true  to  his 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  237 

plighted  vows,  came  back,  in  the  springtime  of  the  North,  to 
claim  his  blooming  Southern  bride. 

If  Henry  had  been  captivated  by  Nora,  in  all  her  wild  levity 
and  unchastened  spirits,  how  much  more  charming  did  he  find 
her  now,  since  the  discipline  of  life  had  subdued  the  exuberance 
of  animal  gayety,  and  love  had  not  only  softened,  but  exalted 
her  character  ?  He  feared  at  first  she  had  lost  a  little  too 
much  of  her  original  sparkling  brightness ;  but  when  he  saw 
her,  the  cynosure  of  his  Northern  home,  in  the  midst  of  new 
and  exciting  scenes,  glowing  with  happiness  herself,  and  diffus 
ing  it  around  her — her  spirits  never  effervescing  too  boister 
ously,  or  sinking  too  despondingly,  occasionally  flashing  with 
the  brilliancy  of  mirth,  and  always  shining  with  the  serene 
lustre  of  cheerfulness,  he  felt  that  she  retained  all  the  warmth 
and  vitality  and  individuality  he  had  so  much  admired,  with 
the  added  graces  of  gentleness,  sweetness,  and  womanly  de 
pendence.  As  she  told  Henry,  the  downy  wings  of  Julia's 
heavenly  spirit  had  first  winnowed  hers,  and  the  golden  grain 
began  to  gleam  from  the  chaff  that  had  enveloped  it. 

When  Henry  told  his  parents  and  sister  that  he  should  give 
them  a  daughter  and  sister  in  the  stead  of  the  departed  Julia, 
they  turned  coldly  from  the  communication,  feeling  as  if  it 
were  sacrilege  for  the  wild  Southern  girl  to  think  of  filling  the 
place  of  the  angel  they  had  lost ;  but  she  found  herself  at  home 
in  their  hearts  before  she  knew  she  was  there,  and  cherished 
with  parental  tenderness  and  love. 

Henry  had  promised  that  her  second  winter  should  be  passed 
at  the  South,  but  she  was  so  enchanted  with  her  first  wintry 
season  at  the  North,  it  seemed  doubtful  if  she  would  remin 
him  of  his  pledge. 

li  Beautiful,"  she  would  say,  "is  my  own  summer  home, 
and  beautiful  beyond  description  are  the  evergreen  bowers  of 
Rosavilla;  but  give  me  the  exhilarating  climate,  the  drifting 
snows  and  glittering  ice  of  the  North.  I  feel  surrounded  by 
elements  that  I  love,  for,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  colder 
33 


238  ROBERT  GRAHAM  I 

the  atmosphere  the  warmer  my  heart,  and  the  lighter  my 

spirits. 

" '  0  winter !  ruler  of  th'  inverted  year, 
I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness,' 

as  Cowper  pertinently  observes.  Oh,  matchless  Aristides ! 
when  shall  I  listen  to  thy  like  again  ?  Magnificent  Tuscarora ! 
lovely,  incomparable  Linda !" 

"And  noble,  glorious  Robert !  would  to  heaven  he  would  re 
turn,"  exclaimed  Henry,  "and  induce  her  to  exchange  the 
weeds  of  widowhood  for  the  bridal  robes !" 

"  Oh,  Henry,  she  never  will  forget  Roland — never  love  an 
other.  Men  may  love  twice,"  she  said,  with  a  glowing  check, 
remembering  she  was  the  object  of  a  second  love,  "but  woman 
never." 

"  Robert  loved  Linda  before  her  marriage,"  answered  Henry, 
smiling  at  her  emphatic  never,  "  and  she  must  have  mourned 
over  his  early  disappointment.  Had  Roland  lived,  she  would 
have  been  true  to  her  early  love;  but  were  Robert  now  with  her, 
and  did  his  youthful  passion  revive  for  her,  she  could  not  be 
insensible  to  his  surpassing  excellence.  Strong  as  was  her  at 
tachment  to  the  young  and  gallant  Roland,  she  may  not  yet 
know  the  depths  of  her  unsounded  heart.  Robert  is  a  man 
formed  to  inspire  the  most  unbounded,  most  exalted  love, — and 
once  loved,  he  must  be  loved  forever." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  has  ever  ceased  to  love  Linda,"  said 
Nora,  thoughtfully.  "He  might  worship  Julia  as  an  angel; 
but  his  heart  never  swerved  from  its  first  allegiance.  I  saw  bis 
smuggles,  but  Linda  never  imagined  them.  She  looked  upon 
him  as  a  saint,  superior  to  human  weakness  and  temptation." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  Nora.  Julia  was  sealed  from  her 
birth  as  the  bride  of  heaven — not  intended  for  the  ties  of 
earth.  Even  my  brotherly  affection  partook  of  worship. 
Had  I  been  a  Catholic,  I  should  have  adored  her  as  an  inter 
ceding  divinity.  But  Linda,  believe  me,  Nora; — were  Robert 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  239 

wafted  back  from  India's  distant  clime, — Linda  would  love 
again.  I  wish  I  dared  to  write,  and  tell  him  so." 

"No,  Henry;  Robert  would  shrink  from  the  prophecy,  as 
desecrating  the  sacredness  of  Roland's  memory.  "Whatever 
he  might  feel  himself,  he  could  not  bear  to  hear  it  from  the 
lips  of  another.  Besides,  if  he  think  it  his  duty  to  remain 
in  India,  even  Linda  could  not  draw  him  back  to  his  native 
land.  You  speak  of  what  you  would  do,  if  you  were  a 
Catholic.  Had  he  been  one,  good  heavens !  what  a  devotee 
he  would  have  made !  The  girdle  of  thorns,  the  bed  of  iron> 
would  have  been  playthings  to  his  self-scourging  spirit !" 

"  Thank  God/'  exclaimed  Henry,  "  he  is  a  Christian, 
whatever  be  his  creed  !" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ANOTHER  letter  from  Robert  to  Linda,  written  two  years 
after  the  date  of  the  one  transcribed  in  the  last  chapter,  may 
be  more  interesting  to  the  reader  than  its  contents  related  in 
the  third  person.  During  all  this  time  he  had  continued  his 
correspondence  with  Linda,  but  these  two  are  the  only  ones 
we  have  the  privilege  of  giving  to  the  world : 

"  LINDA: 

"I  believed,  when  I  bade  you  adieu,  that  our  next 
meeting  would  be  in  that  world  where  no  curtain  hides  the 
mystery  of  the  heart ! — no  seal  closes  the  revealing  lips  !  I 
believed  that  my  feet  would  never  more  press  my  native 
soil ! — my  cheek  never  more  be  fanned  by  the  breeze  of  the 
"Western  World !  But  God,  the  omnipotent  disposer  of  the 
destinies  of  man,  has  opened  a  way  for  my  return,  as  unex 
pected  as  it  is  mournful.  Rayner;  my  spiritual  father,  my 


240  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

Christian  brother,  my  beloved  friend, — the  faithful  and  devoted 
missionary,  is  smitten  by  a  wasting  disease;  and  the  physicians 
say  his  only  hope  of  restoration  is  in  inhaling  the  purer  air 
of  his  native  clime.  While  he  had  strength  to  labour,  he 
resisted  this  advice,  which,  too  late,  I  fear,  he  is  willing  to 
follow.  First,  his  failing  linibs  refused  to  bear  him  to  the 
temple  of  worship;  then  his  eloquent  lips  began  to  falter, 
his  heavenly  eye  waxed  dim.  But  there  is  more  eloquence 
now  in  his  languishing  countenance  than  in  all  the  classics 
of  Greece  and  Rome :  for  the  glory  of  God  shines  forth  from 
his  faded  features,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  breathes  from  his  weak 
and  pallid  lips.  By  his  own  request,  I  come  the  companion 
of  his  voyage,  that  I  may  minister  to  him  as  son,  brother, 
friend.  I  return  to  my  country — I  return  to  you  !  The 
mighty  hand  of  God  draws  us  together  once  more,  when  I 
thought  we  were  forever  sundered.  My  heart  swells  with 
feelings  too  powerful  for  expression.  All  the  thoughts  born 
in  years  of  exile,  all  that  you  have  suffered,  all  that  I  have 
felt,  are  concentrated  in  this  single  moment !  Oh,  Linda,  let 
us  not  meet  in  darkness  and  despair !  Time  has  faded  the 
cypress  wreath.  Hope  renews  the  springtime  of  the  heart. 

"  EGBERT." 

A  short  time  after  this  letter  reached  its  destination,  the 
missionary  ship  arrived,  and  Robert  pressed  once  more  his 
native  soil.  His  first  care  was  to  attend  the  invalid,  Rayner, 
to  the  friends  who  were  anxiously  waiting  his  coming,  and 
whose  joyous  welcome  seemed  to  infuse  new  vitality  in  his 
languid  veins; — his  next,  to  visit  Pine  Grove,  and  see  if  all 
was  well  there,  under  the  vigilant  eye  of  the  faithful  and 
intelligent  superintendent; — and  then — and  not  till  then — 
he  turned  his  face  to  Rosavilla,  the  home  of  Linda — of  Linda, 
no  longer  the  wife  of  another ! — no  longer  guarded  by  the 
flaming  sword>  from  whose  burning  edge  his  heart  had  so  often 
recoiled ! 


A   SEQUEL    TO  LINDA.  241 

Yet  he  trembled  more  at  the  thought  of  approaching  her  in 
the  sad  twilight  of  her  widowhood,  than  in  the  glowing  sun 
shine  of  her  wedded  happiness.  If  he  found  her  heart  indeed 
buried  in  the  grave  of  Roland,  incapable  of  resurrection, — 
her  life  consecrated  to  his  memory, — no  cloistered  nun  should 
henceforth  be  more  sacred  from  the  vows  of  earthly  love. 
He  hardly  knew  how  much  he  hoped,  or  how  greatly  he 
feared.  He  was  resolved  she  should  know  him  as  he  was, 
since  honour  no  longer  imposed  disguise;  and  then,  if  she  so 
willed  it,  he  would  exile  himself  forever  from  her  presence. 

How  his  heart  throbbed  when  he  saw  the  white  walls  of 
Rosavilla  gleaming  through  the  luxuriant  foliage  of  early 
summer ! — when  he  saw  the  polished  leaves  of  the  tall  mag 
nolias  glittering  in  the  silver  moonlight,  and  inhaled  the  odour 
of  their  magnificent  blossoms  !  It  was  night  when  he  arrived 
two  years  and  a  half  ago;  it  was  night  now.  He  was  glad, 
for  his  feelings  wanted  a  mantle  of  shadows  to  veil  their 
tumult.  He  shrunk  from  the  moonlight,  as  if  it  could  fathom 
the  mystery  of  his  emotions. 

As  he  ascended  the  path  which  wound  from  the  river  to 
the  mansion-house,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  tall,  white  pillar, 
rising  in  the  midst  of  a  green  enclosure,  separated  from  the 
garden,  and  surrounded  by  a  hedge  of  jessamines  and  roses. 
The  air  was  embalmed  by  their  fragrance,  damp  as  it  was 
with  the  dew  of  night. 

Robert  paused,  and  leaning  against  an  iron  railing  that 
encircled  the  hedge,  he  gazed  on  the  obelisk,  reflecting  so 
dazzlingly  the  white  lustre  of  the  night.  It  recalled  to  his 
mind  his  return  to  his  own  home  from  his  first  exile;  his  visit 
to  his  mother's  tomb;  and  all  that  had  occurred  since  that 
remembered  hour.  He  thought  of  Julia,  whom,  he  then  first 
beheld  in  her  fair,  ethereal  loveliness,  now  sleeping  beneath  a 
cold,  white  monument  far  away,  but  on  which  the  same  moon- 
beams  were  shining. 

"  Oh,  Death !  Death!"  he  murmured,  lifting  his  hatreve- 


242  ROBERT   GRAHAM  : 

rently  from  his  brow,  as  he  stood  before  this  memorial  of  its 
awful  power,  "in  thy  cold  and  sublime  presence  the  eager 
ness  of  hope  subsides,  the  throbs  of  passion  are  stilled.  Brave 
and  noble  Roland !  thou  didst  fall  in  the  dew  of  youth — the 
brightness  of  thy  manhood.  Thou  art  worthy  of  every  tear 
that  embalms  thy  memory.  I  will  not  rob  thee  of  one  precious 
tribute.  My  hands  shall  assist  in  twining  the  garlands  that 
adorn  your  tomb." 

With  slow  steps  he  turned  again  into  the  path,  looking  back 
on  the  marble  which  had  so  tranquilized  the  tumult  of  his 
bosom.  A  beautiful  figure  of  Hope  leaning  on  an  anchor,  sur 
mounted  a  lofty  pedestal,  on  whose  sides  were  represented,  in 
bas-relief,  different  views  of  the  ocean.  The  one  which  Robert 
could  now  see  was  descriptive  of  his  fate.  The  dashing  billows, 
the  sinking  vessel,  the  fatal  rocks,  were  all  visible.  On  a 
pillar,  rising  behind  the  statue,  the  massy  coils  of  a  cable  rope 
were  defined,  and  so  exquisite  was  the  carving,  the  marble 
seemed  to  feel  the  strain  of  the  twisting  cordage. 

This  silent  monitor  had  breathed  a  religious  calm  into  Ro 
bert's  soul.  He  threaded  the  winding  avenues  of  the  garden, 
ascended  the  flight  of  steps  that  led  to  the  verandah,  and  saw 
the  lamps  shining  through  the  clustering  vines,  now  half  con 
cealing  the  windows  with  their  summer  bloom.  They  were 
all  open,  to  admit  the  evening  breeze,  and  Robert,  pushing 
aside  the  green  drapery  and  transparent  lace,  paused  one  mo 
ment  ere  he  entered,  for  a  sudden  dimness  came  over  his 
Bight,  and  the  roaring  of  many  waters  seemed  thundering  in 
his  ears. 

Linda  sat,  not  as  she  did  when  he  first  returned  from  India, 
half  enclosed  in  her  husband's  arms,  with  the  soft  glow  of  love 
on  her  cheek,  and  its  enchanting  smile  curling  the  roses  of  her 
lips.  She  sat  alone  by  the  table,  on  which  books  and  work 
were  scattered,  but  her  hands  were  folded,  and  her  eyes  cast 
down  in  deep,  musing  thought.  A  black  dress  of  transparent 
tissue,  corresponding  to  the  warmth  of  the  season,  formed 


A   SEQUEL  TO   LINDA.  243 

such  a  contrast  to  the  pearly  fairness  of  her  complexion,  she 
looked  scarcely  less  white  than  the  marble  on  which  he  had 
just  been  gazing.  Not  the  faintest  tint  of  colour  glowed  on 
her  cheek,  and  the  shade  of  the  long  lashes  that  rested  upon 
it  was  pensive  as  the  drooping  of  the  willow's  weeping  boughs. 

Robert  had  pictured  her  to  himself  clad  in  the  weeds  of 
widowhood,  shrouded  in  the  twilight  of  memory,  but  not  as  he 
now  beheld  her.  There  was  something  in  her  look  and  atti 
tude  that  seemed  to  say,  "  There  is  no  second  spring-time  to 
the  heart." 

Not  with  another  secret  glance  would  he  intrude  on  her 
pensive  revery  ;  he  would  not  even  enter  unannounced,  as  he 
had  done  before.  He  stepped  to  the  door  and  rang  the  bell, 
that  she  might  be  prepared  for  his  approach, — such  a  sacred- 
ness  now  invested  her.  He  hardly  expected  to  see  that  frozen 
form  move  at  his  entrance, — but  the  moment  he  crossed  the 
threshold,  the  moment  she  heard  the  sound  of  his  voice,  she 
started  from  her  seat,  as  if  touched  with  an  electric  wire. 

"  Robert !  Robert !"  she  exclaimed,  springing  to  his  arms 
with  a  cry  that  seemed  to  breath  out  her  soul;  "I  am  not  then 
left  all  alone." 

Gushing  tears  impeded  her  utterance,  nor  did  she  weep 
alone.  Robert,  as  he  clasped  her  in  silence  to  his  bosom,  in 
an  agony  of  love  and  sympathy,  wept  over  Aer,  and  over  the 
grave  of  his  own  hopes.  They  died  at  the  first  glance  of  her 
pale  cheek  and  mourning  robes,  and  he  execrated  himself  for 
having  nourished  them. 

"  I  came  to  comfort  thee,  my  beloved  Linda,"  said  he,  at 
length  triumphing  over  his  own  agitation;  and  leading  her  to 
a  seat  he  sat  down  by  her,  and  tried  to  soothe  her  with  all 
the  tenderness  of  a  brother.  Gradually  her  tears  ceased  to 
flow;  she  looked  in  his  face,  and  even  smiled — a  sad  smile, — 
but  there  was  so  much  welcome  in  it !  His  coming  was  like 
the  coming  of  an  angel  to  her,  after  the  night  of  her  sorrow 
and  the  gloom  of  their  separation.  She  had  wept  for  the  ab- 


244  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

sent  Robert,  as  well  as  the  departed  Roland,  and  now,  at  the 
moment  of  greeting,  the  wound  which  time  had  been  slowly 
healing  opened  to  bleed  anew. 

"Are  you  indeed  alone?"  asked  he.  "Have  you  no  female 
friend  who  cheers  your  solitude  ?" 

"I  have  friends,"  she  answered;  "but  none  who  could  take 
your  place,  as  brother,  comforter, — as  the  friend  of  my  soul. 
Nora,  now  happy  in  her  Northern  home,  clung  to  me  with  a 
sister's  devotion.  Emily  remained  with  me  long.  Mrs. 
Revere,  too,  has  been  with  me,  lavishing  on  me  more  than  ma 
ternal  kindness, — and  through  all,  the  German  woman,  whose 
direction  you  gave  me,  has  been  a  companion  and  a  friend. 
She,  with  her  little  Willie,  have  long  been  inmates  of  my 
household.  No,  dear  Robert,"  she  added,  regarding  him  with 
a  look  of  earnest  gratitude  and  feeling,  "  I  am  not  alone ;  but 
now  you  have  come,  it  seems,  in  comparison,  that  I  have  been 
ell  solitary  before.  And  my  boy — my  darling,  my  beautiful, 
my  good  little  Walton — he  is  spared  to  me.  Come  with  me 
and  look  at  him.  See,  how  lovely  he  is  in  sleep !" 

Lifting  a  gauzy  curtain,  that  floated  in  the  doorway  between 
the  two  apartments,  she  led  the  way  to  the  couch  of  the  sleep 
ing  Walton,  and  holding  the  lamp  above  him,  displayed  his 
cherub  face  to  Robert's  bending  glance. 

"  How  much  he  is  like  Roland !"  she  said,  pressing  her 
quivering  lips  to  the  child's  snowy  forehead;  "he  has  the 
same  noble  brow — the  same  beautiful  smile.  Do  you  not 
think  so,  Robert  ?" 

"  I  do  see  a  resemblance,"  he  answered,  laying  his  hand 
gently  on  its  silken  curls,  "and  I  trust  its  father's  manly 
virtues  may  live  again  in  him." 

He  was  glad  that  Linda  talked  of  Roland.  The  unspoken 
name  has  the  strongest  spell,  and  the  unuttered  sorrow  dries 
up  the  heart. 

Thus  Robert  found  himself  domesticated  once  more  under 
the  same  roof  with  Linda;  and  as  day  after  day  passed  by,  the 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  245 

hopes  which  he  had  thought  annihilated  asserted  their  vitality 
by  a  reviving  glow.  He  could  not  help  noticing,  with  inex 
pressible  joy,  her  growing  dependence  on  him  for  cheerfulness, 
if  not  happiness.  Every  morning,  when  she  greeted  him,  it 
seemed  that  the  soft  shadow  of  her  pensive  countenance  dimi 
nished  ;  he  even  thought  a  faint  blush  sometimes  dawned  at  his 
approach.  They  were  thrown  constantly  together  by  the  cir 
cumstances  in  which  they  were  placed.  Aristides  was  now  a 
fixture  in  the  household,  and  invested  with  the  supervision  of 
every  thing  requiring  a  master's  eye.  His  fidelity  and  shrewd 
ness  were  equalled  only  by  his  simplicity  and  learning.  At 
this  season  he  was  much  abroad  on  the  plantation,  and  at 
night  he  usually  pored  over  the  classics  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

Mrs.  Stillings,  the  widowed  German  woman  to  whom  Linda 
had  given  a  life-long  home,  devoted  herself  with  assiduity  to 
household  cares,  while  her  little  boy  played  among  the  flowers 
with  the  young  Walton.  So  Linda  walked  with  Robert  in 
the  orange  bowers  and  rosy  avenues,  sat  with  him  in  the 
shaded  verandah,  or  listened  by  the  silver  lamp-light,  while 
he  read  the  strains  of  genius  and  piety  in  a  voice  of  thrilling 
music.  Light  had  dawned  on  the  night-shades  of  sorrow; 
and  again  and  again  she  said — 

"  Oh !  how  lonely  should  I  be  without  thee,  my  brother  I 
what  should  I  do  deprived  of  the  blessing  of  thy  presence  ?" 

And  Robert  dared  not  dispel  this  sweet  confidence  in  his 
brotherly  love,  lest  he  should  be  left  in  utter  darkness  of  heart, 
hopeless  and  alone. 

At  length  he  received  a  letter  from  Rayner,  reminding  him 
of  his  duties  as  a  Christian  missionary,  mourning  over  his 
own  waning  health,  which  forbade  the  prospect  of  returning 
to  the  field  of  his  labours,  and  committing  to  Robert  the 
charge  of  the  souls  over  which  they  had  watched  together, 
and  for  whom  he,  Rayner,  had  drained  the  oil  of  life's  wast 
ing  lamp. 

When  Robert  read  this  letter,  he  was  sitting  with  Linda  in 


246  ROBERT    GRAHAM  : 

the  parlour,  as  lie  was  wont  to  do  in  the  evening  hour.  She 
watched  his  countenance  as  he  perused  it,  and  her  own  turned 
of  a  paler  hue,  as  she  marked  the  agitation  of  his. 

"What  is  it,  Robert?"  she  asked,  with  indefinite  appre 
hension,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm  as  she  spoke. 

"  Come  with  me  into  the  verandah,  and  I  will  tell  you," 
said  he ;  and  rising  and  taking  her  hand,  he  led  her  under  the 
sweeping  vines,  out  into  the  glorious  moonlight,  that  made 
fairy  checker-work  on  the  white  wall  and  ingrained  flooring. 
It  was  not  the  same  moon  which  had  illumined  his  coming.  A 
month  had  passed  since  then.  They  walked  the  whole  length 
of  the  verandah  without  speaking,  when,  stopping  by  one  of 
the  pillars,  all  dripping  with  rose-wreaths,  he  exclaimed — 

"  I  know  not  what  is  come  over  me.  I  cannot  speak, 
though  existence,  or  all  that  it  involves,  hangs  trembling  on 
this  moment.  I  am  called  away,  Linda;  but  before  I  go — " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  Robert,  you  are  not  going  to  leave  me.  Not 
going  to  leave  me  so  soon,"  she  cried ;  and  covering  her  face 
with  her  handkerchief,  she  leaned  against  the  pillar,  while  the 
rose-wreaths  drooped  over  her  brow. 

"  Linda,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  faltered  from  intense  emo 
tion,  "  the  time  is  come  when  I  must  speak  or  die.  I  rend 
asunder  the  chain  which  has  so  long  bound  my  struggling 
heart,  and  gathering  up  the  fragments,  cast  them  trembling  at 
your  feet.  Look  upon  me,  Linda,  not  as  a  brother,  not  as  a 
friend  merely,  but  the  lover  of  your  youth — as  one  whose  con 
stant  and  unconquerable  love  has  never  known  a  shadow  of  a 
change.  Impute  it  to  me  as  a  crime,  if  you  will,  that  I  could 
not  quench  the  flame  which  I  smothered  in  my  bosom — that  I 
could  not  forget  you  when  I  gave  you  to  another.  If  it  be  a 
crime — and  that  I  have  deemed  it  one,  let  burning  tears  and 
rending  sighs  and  midnight  vigils  testify — it  is  one  I  can  no 
longer  conceal.  Honour  no  longer  imposes  silence,  and  friend 
ship  will  forgive,  if  love  refuses  to  sanction." 

\s  he  thus  went  on  in  a  strain  of  impassioned  eloquence, 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  217 

as  a  stream  which,  having  broken  through  a  rocky  barrier, 
sweeps  resistlessly  along,  Linda  threw  both  arms  round  the 
pillar  against  which  she  was  leaning,  and  dropped  her  face, 
so  that  not  a  moonbeam  glanced  upon  its  snow.  Her  arms 
trembled,  her  bosom  headed,  but  she  did  not  speak;  she  could 
not  have  spoken  had  death  been  the  penalty  of  her  silence. 

"  Let  me  go  on,"  continued  Robert,  "  till  I  have  laid  bare 
my  whole  soul,  and  then,  if  you  will,  I  am  forever  silent.  You 
remember  how  you  pleaded  another's  cause,  how  you  urged 
me  to  offer  another  my  heart  throbbing  with  undying  love  for 
you.  I  yielded  to  your  prayers,  but  I  never  deceived  her, 
never  told  Julia  that  I  loved  her.  I  asked  her  to  place  her 
spotless  bosom  before  my  erring  heart,  as  a  shield  from  temp 
tation,  and  she  consented ;  but  God  forbade  the  sacrifice,  that 
he  might  glorify  himself  in  my  weakness.  Say  not  that  I  was 
wrong  to  seek  your  presence,  under  the  plea  of  brotherly 
affection.  I  thought  I  had  conquered  myself,  I  felt  strong  in 
the  panoply  of  religion — strong  and  triumphant  after  years 
devoted  to  the  service  of  my  Saviour  and  my  God.  I  resolved 
to  fly,  but  I  was  urged  to  remain  as  your  protector,  as  the 
guardian  of  your  child.  Could  I  refuse  the  sacred  trust  ?  I 
never  betrayed  it,  Linda;  you  know  I  have"  been  faithful,  but 
God  only  knows  through  what  bitter  conflicts. 

Again  he  paused,  and  Linda's  trembling  arms  wrapped  them 
selves  closer  round  the  supporting  pillar.  The  vines  still 
drooped  over  her  face.  He  came  nearer  to  her,  and  drew  one 
of  the  white,  unresisting  hands  from  the  pillar  it  twined.  She 
did  not  attempt  to  withdraw  it,  and  he  felt  it  throbbing  with 
ten  thousand  pulses. 

"  Oh,  beloved  Linda/'  said  he,  pressing  that  throbbing  hand 
on  his  heart,  whose  beatings  were  audible  in  the  moonlight 
stillness,  "close  not  your  heart  to  a  love  so  constant  and  so  true. 
I  ask  not  for  the  passionate  emotions  of  life's  young  dream ;  I 
ask  you  not  to  forget  him  whose  memory  should  be  immortal ; 
but  oh,  Linda,  think  how  young  we  both  are  yet — what  long 


248  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

years  of  happiness  may  be  ours,  if  we  now  take  each  other  by 
the  hand,  with  chastened  hopes  and  heavenward  faces,  as  fellow 
pilgrims  to  an  immortal  goal.  Turn,  beloved  of  my  soul,  from 
that  cold  pillar  to  this  warm,  sustaining  heart,  or,  if  such  be 
my  doom,  banish  me  at  once  to  my  lonely  destiny/' 

At  these  words,  Linda  raised  her  head,  and  the  moonlight 
fell  full  upon  her  face.  It  was  of  unearthly  paleness,  and  her 
eyes  looked  like  stars,  in  the  tremulous  depths  of  ocean. 

"  Oh,  Robert !"  she  said,  withdrawing  her  arms  from  the 
supporting  pillar  and  turning  toward  him,  "  I  did  not  dream 
of  this — this  all-enduring,  matchless  love.  It  overpowers,  it 
drowns  me.  I  cannot  think,  I  cannot  speak;  I  can  only  feel. 
Oh,  if  blighted  as  I  am,  so  little  worthy  of  such  boundless  de 
votion,  you  can  prize  so  poor  a  gift,  take  me,  Robert, — I  am 
yours." 

Before  the  last  faltering  word  had  left  her  lips,  she  was 
clasped  in  the  arms,  trembling  on  the  heart  of  Robert.  Closer 
and  closer  still  he  clasped  her,  as  if  he  feared  some  invisible 
power  would  snatch  her  from  his  embrace.  His  lips,  incapable 
of  utterance,  pressed  on  hers  the  glowing  kiss  of  betrothed 
love.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  dared  to  yield  himself 
to  the  rushing  tide  of  his  impassioned  emotions, — the  first 
time  that  joy,  pure,  ecstatic  joy,  blended  with  the  love  so  long 
interwoven  with  sorrow  and  remorse.  The  revulsion  of  his 
feelings  was  too  powerful.  He  felt  faint,  dizzy,  bewildered ; 
something  as  the  blind  man  feels,  when  the  glory  of  sunshine 
first  dawns  on  the  long  night  of  darkness. 

It  was  not  till  seated  by  her,  on  one  of  the  bamboo  couches 
which  formed  a  part  of  the  verandah,  how  long  afterward  he 
knew  not,  that  he  realized  the  wondrous  change  those  little 
words,  "I  am  yours,"  had  wrought  in  his  destiny.  Then  a 
flood  QC  gratitude  to  God,  for  having  opened  a  vista  through 
which  years  of  happiness  seemed  rolling  on  in  golden  billows 
toward  heaven,  came  sweeping  over  his  soul.  It  prostrated 
him  on  his  knees,  and  he  could  not  help  pouring  out  his  joy- 


A    SEQUEL    TO   LINDA.  249 

burdened  spirit  into  the  bosom  of  his  heavenly  Father.  And 
Linda  knelt  at  his  side,  and  these  two  betrothed  beings,  be 
trothed  under  circumstances  of  such  peculiar  solemnity,  felt 
their  souls  mingling  together  in  the  incense  of  adoration  and 
prayer. 

"Ah !  there  is  no  end  to  the  battle  of  life,"  said  Kobert, 
when,  after  returning  to  the  house,  he  read  aloud  to  Linda  the 
letter  of  Rayner.  "How  can  I  ever  think  of  asking  you  to 
sacrifice  your  country,  home,  and  friends  for  me  ?  How  can  I 
ever  think  of  your  being  exposed  to  the  influence  of  that  sultry 
clime,  which  has  wilted  so  many  fragile  blossoms  of  life  ?" 

"  What  sacrifice  shall  I  make  if  I  go  with  you  ?"  said  Linda, 
her  cheek  glowing  with  the  awakening  enthusiasm  of  her  feel 
ings.  "  You,  who  will  henceforth  be  to  me,  instead  of  country, 
home  and  all  ?  Noxt  here  could  I  ever  ratify  the  promise  I 
have  so  lately  breathed, — here,  where  every  thing  belongs  to 
the  past,  and  is  associated  with  remembrances  which  might 
forever  haunt  me.  Not  here,  Robert/7  she  added,  while  the 
glow  faded  from  her  cheek,  "  could  I  bid  the  myrtle  garland 
bloom  again  for  me.  I  thought  my  heart  was  buried  in  yonder 
marble  tomb.  I  dreamed  not  of  hope,  involved  in  the  shadows 
of  memory  •  but  you  came  and  awakened  me  from  the  torpor  and 
gloom  of  dullness — the  sleep  resembling  death.  Your  love,  so 
sublime  in  its  constancy,  so  glorious  in  its  sacrifices,  has  a  new 
creating  power.  A  new  heart  seems  throbbing  in  my  bosom ; 
new  hopes  are  springing  from  the  dust,  and  this  new-born  heart 
pants  to  share  your  higher,  nobler  destiny;  pants  to  devote 
itself  to  the  holy  purposes  to  which  you  have  dedicated  your 
self.  I  have  seen  and  felt  the  vanity  of  earthly  things.  Oh, 
not  for  this  life  only,  Robert,  would  I  accept  your  noble  heart. 
We  are  plighted  for  heaven,  we  will  be  wedded  for  eternity." 

Linda,  having  made  her  unalterable  decision  to  become  the 
wife  of  a  missionary,  believing  it  the  fulfilment  of  her  peculiar 
destiny,  seemed,  as  she  had  said,  a  new-created  being.  There 
was  something  in  the  strength,  the  grandeur  of  such  love  as 


250  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

Robert's,  that  awoke  congenial  elements  in  lier  own  character. 
A  short  time  before,  there  seemed  a  mournful  sweetness  in 
dedicating  her  youth,  her  life,  to  the  memory  of  the  dead;  now 
she  was  sustained  by  a  more  exalted  purpose,  that  of  devoting 
herself  to  the  happiness  of  the  living. 

She  wrote  to  Emily  and  to  Mrs.  Revere,  whose  friendship 
and  sympathy  had  sustained  and  consoled  her  in  her  saddest, 
darkest  hours.  She  wrote  to  Mr.  Hunly,  whose  affection  for 
Roland  had  endeared  him  greatly  to  her  own  heart.  The  splen 
did  monument  erected  to  his  memory  in  Rosavilla's  bowers  was 
a  memorial  of  his  gratitude  and  sorrow.  Nor  did  she  forget 
Nora,  who  was  now  inexpressibly  dear  to  her,  and  who  deserved 
this  proof  of  her  confidence  and  love.  To  all  these  friends 
she  told  the  history  of  her  betrothal,  and  of  the  solemn  pledge 
she  had  given  to  leave  her  native  land  for  the  missionary's 
distant  home.  She  thanked  them,  with  overflowing  heart,  for 
all  their  past  kindness  and  sympathy,  and  entreated  them  to 
follow  her  with  their  prayers  to  India's  sultry  land. 

"While  thus  tenderly  remembering  her  absent  friends,  sho 
was  not  unmindful  of  those  gathered  round  her.  The  grief  of 
the  household,  when  told  of  her  intended  departure,  almost 
overpowered  her.  It  was  as  intense  as  that  which  followed 
the  enunciation  of  Roland's  death.  The  affectionate  negroes, 
to  whom  she  had  been  the  kindest  and  most  indulgent  mistress, 
were  inconsolable  at  first,  and  nothing  comforted  them  but  the 
assurance  that  she  would  return,  if  God  spared  her  life,  to  see 
them  all  once  more.  Aunt  Judy,  though  she  had  an  insur 
mountable  dread  of  crossing  the  ocean,  declared  it  her  fixed 
determination  to  accompany  her  young  mistress  and  the 
"  blessed  baby,"  as  she  still  called  the  little  Walton. 

"  Bless  a  Lord  for  his  goodness,"  cried  the  faithful  African; 
<l  I  wouldn't  part  with  my  young  mistress  if  I  knew'd  I'd  be 
swallowed,  like  Jonas,  in  the  mouth  of  a  whale.  I  nursed 
her  a  baby  in  these  arms.  She  went  her  own  precious  little 
born  self*  when  she  couldn't  see  her  hand  afore  her;  and  the 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  251 

wild  beasts  was  a  prowling  in  the  woods,  [Judy  always  would 
exaggerate  the  story  of  Linda's  early  heroism,]  to  get  'em  to 
buy  poor  Judy,  and  save  her  from  the  old  speculator.  Oh, 
she's  ben  a  heavenly  young  mistress,  and  I'll  follow  her  to 
the  eend  of  the  universal  world !  Little  did  I  think,  when  I 
fuss  saw  Masser  Robert,  I  ever  should  look  on  him  as  the 
angel  of  a  Lord  he  am  now;  that  I  should  cry  for  joy  'cause 
Miss  Lindy  gonter  marry  him,  tho  he  take  her  off  nobody 
know  how  far.  Won't  she  be  a  heap  better  off  married  to 
such  a  beautiful,  lovingsome  saint  as  he  is,  than  crying  out 
her  eyes  over  a  monument  that  don't  know  nothing  'bout  it, 
bless  a  Lord  ?" 

"We  might  pursue  Judy's  soliloquy  to  an  interminable 
length,  for  she  thought  of  nothing  else,  talked  of  nothiog 
else  the  livelong  day.  But  there  were  others  as  deeply 
affected,  and  who  would  gladly  have  followed  her  likewise  to 
the  farthest  regions  of  the  globe. 

The  tender  heart  of  Aristides  was  rent  with  anguish  at  the 
thought  of  parting  with  his  beloved  pupil,  his  adored  bene 
factress,  his  constant  friend;  but  he  dared  not  murmur  at 
what  he  firmly  believed  her  God-directed  destiny.  To  him 
she  committed  the  guardianship  of  her  temporal  concerns, 
over  which  Mr.  Hunly  offered,  moreover,  to  watch  with 
fatherly  interest.  The  grateful  Mrs.  Stillings  was  installed  as 
housekeeper,  in  place  of  Aunt  Judy,  who  had  abdicated  the 
throne  she  had  herself  assumed,  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  her 
mistress.  The  labours  of  the  slave  were  now  all  labours  of 
love,  for,  since  her  marriage,  Linda  had  imposed  no  duties  on 
her  faithful  old  servant. 

One  sacred  office  she  intrusted  to  Aristides,  when  no  one 
was  near  to  hear  the  parting  injunction.  She  led  him  to  the 
marble  monument,  whose  white  pillar,  rising  pure  and  lofty 
mid  the  gathering  shades  of  twilight,  was  indeed  emblematical 
of  the  memory  of  him  whose  spotless  virtues  triumphed  over 
the  shadows  of  time. 


252  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

"  To  you,  friend  of  my  childhood,"  said  she,  "  I  leave  the 
care  of  this  holy  shrine.  Think  not,  because  I  go  to  minister 
to  another  altar,  that  I  shall  lose  remembrance  of  this. 
Should  I  cease  to  cherish  the  memory  of  one  so  noble  and  so 
dear,  I  were  unworthy  of  the  love  to  which  I  have  pledged  my 
future  life.  Nourish  every  flower  I  have  planted.  Let  every 
leaf  be  kept  green;  and  brush  away,  with  gentle  hand,  the 
dust  that  may  gather  here.  My  spirit,  0  Aristides!  will 
often  hover  round  thee,  while  fulfilling  this  holy  duty." 

«  Sweet,  oh  filia  amata!  shall  be  the  remembrance  of  this 
hallowed  trust,"  answered  Aristides,  wiping  away  the  starting 
tears.  "  The  morning  sunbeams  and  evening  dews  shall  not 
more  faithfully  fulfil  their  mission  here  than  I,  mourner  for 
the  living  as  well  as  the  dead.  I  will  bring  hither  the  flowers 
of  spring  and  the  roses  of  summer.  Heaven  will  bend  in  pen 
sive  guardianship  over  the  consecrated  spot : 

" '  And  angels,  with  their  silver  wings,  o'ershade 

The  ground,  now  sacred  by  his  relics  made,'— 
as    Pope    pathetically   remarks.      But   for    me,    oh    puella 

carissima  !" — 

He  turned  away,  unable  to  master  his  emotion  at  the 
thought  of  his  coming  desolation. 

Tears  stole  down  the  dusky  checks  of  Tuscarora— a  rare 
tribute  to  Linda's  wondrous  power  of  inspiring  intense  regard. 

"Poor  are  words  to  express  the  gratitude  of  the  heart, 
noble  Tuscarora  !"  said  Linda,  when  she  spoke  to  him  of  their 
approaching  separation.  « I  owe  you  debts  which  never  can 
be  cancelled,  but  in  every  prayer  wafted  to  heaven,  beyond 
the  Atlantic  waves,  my  grateful  soul  shall  draw  down  blessings 
on  your  head." 

Tuscarora  attempted  to  reply,  then  suddenly  raised  his  hand 
to  his  brow,  and  left  the  room.  He  wandered  for  hours  in 
the  woods  before  he  ventured  to  return  to  his  cabin,  for  tears 
leave  the  stain  of  disgrace  on  the  dark  skin  of  the  red  man. 
Naimuna  might  weep,  for  she  was  a  woman;  Aristides  might 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  253 

weep,  for  ho  had  the  heart  of  a  child;  but  the  son  of  the 
forest  must  not  weep,  for  he  is  the  "  stoic  of  the  woods — the 
man  without  a  tear  !" 

Passing  over  a  chasm,  which  the  imagination  of  the  reader 
can  supply,  we  turn  to  the  scene  when  the  young  missionary; 
no  longer  alone,  again  departed  from  the  Atlantic  shores. 

It  was  a  bright  and  glorious  morning,  when  a  missionary 
ship  was  seen'  with  spreading  sails  in  the  noble  harbour  of 
New  York.  A  countless  throng  darkened  the  wharves,  to 
look  upon  the  departure  of  those  whose  vocation  always 
invests  them  with  peculiar  interest.  But  a  wondrous  attraction 
now  drew  the  eyes  of  the  gazing  multitude  to  the  deck  of  the 
vessel,  where  two  beings  stood  hand  in  hand,  a  young  and 
bridal  pair,  ready  to  offer  youth,  beauty,  wealth,  and  distinc 
tion  on  the  altar  of  a  crucified  Redeemer. 

And  standing  on  their  left,  enhancing  the  interest  of  the 
scene,  appeared  a  faithful  daughter  of  Africa,  holding  in  her 
arms  a  lovely  boy  of  about  three  years  of  age — fair  and  inno 
cent  voyager  to  an  unknown  and  far-off  clime. 

Yes;  Linda  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  vessel,  the  wedded 
wife  of  Robert  Graham !  The  sable  weeds  of  widowhood 
were  exchanged  for  a  robe  of  plain  and  spotless  white.  No 
ornament  glittered  on  her  person, — not  even  a  bridal  flower 
bloomed  in  the  deep  golden  brown  of  her  simply-parted  locks. 
A  holy  lustre  shone  in  her  moistened  eyes  as  she  turned  them, 
perhaps  for  the  last  time,  on  her  native  shores.  And  many 
an  eye  in  that  dense  crowd  wept  as  it  rested  on  that  young 
and  beautiful  pair,  whose  faces  seemed,  in  the  pure  morning 
light,  like  the  faces  of  angels. 

There  were  some  familiar  forms,  on  which  the  missionaries 
looked  down  with  yearning  hearts,  in  this  solemn,  parting  mo 
ment.  Henry  and  Nora  had  come  to  the  city  to  bid  them 
farewell,  and  they  were  now  mingled  with  the  strangers  wl  o 
were  gathered  near  the  departing  vessel.  Nora  wept  unre 
strainedly,  and  Henry,  as  he  gazed  on  the  princely  lineaments 
34 


254  ROBERT  GRAHAM: 

of  his  early  friend,  which  so  soon  would  vanish  from  his  sight, 
felt  in  his  inmost  soul  the  power  of  that  religion  which  could 
lift  such  a  being  above  all  earthly  ambition,  to  be  a  candidate 
for  immortal  honours.  Linda  too— the  young,  the  rich,  the 
beautiful  and  beloved  Linda.  What  a  glorious  offering  to  hei 
Saviour's  cause !  Adoring  angels  might  kneel  to  receive  it, 
and  bear  it  to  the  skies.  She  alone  was  worthy  of  Robert. 
Robert  alone  was  worthy  of  her.  They  were  both  worthy  of 
the  crown  of  glory  laid  up  for  those  who  forsake  all  to  follow 
the  Redeemer's  footsteps. 

A  band  of  Christians  was  gathered  in  the  centre  of  the 
crowd  to  hallow,  with  the  voice  of  praise  and  prayer,  the  part 
ing  hour.  The  aged  minister,  who  was  invested  with  the 
office  of  consecration,  knelt  down  under  the  canopy  of  heaven, 
and  with  uncovered  head,  invoked  the  blessing  of  God  on  their 
mission.  He  commended  them  to  Him  whose  breath  stilled 
the  dark-rolling  waves  of  Galilee,  and  rebuked  the  stormy 
winds ;  who  tempers  the  burning  sun  of  India,  and  infuses  a 
healing  influence  through  its  fair,  but  deadly  clime. 

Tears  gushed  from  the  eyes  of  the  aged  servant  of  God. 
There  was  a  sublimity  in  the  sacrifice  before  him,  that,  while 
it  exalted  his  spirit,  it  melted  his  heart.  He  had  consecrated 
many  a  pair  for  such  holy  labours,  but  never  one  like  this 
kneeling  before  him.  Tears  gushed  from  beneath  his  silver 
eyelids.  He  could  not  go  on,  but  bowing  his  head,  remained 
in  silent  prayer. 

The  effect  was  indescribable.  That  kneeling  throng, — the 
venerable  minister,  on  whose  white,  bending  locks  the  sun 
gleamed  as  on  wintry  snow, — and  the  two  central  figures, 
kneeling  on  deck,  presented  a  scene  of  solemn  beauty  and  re 
ligious  grandeur. 

And  when  they  all  rose  once  more,  and  the  Christian  band 
commenced  the  glorious  missionary  hymn,  whose  strains  will 
roll  down  the  tide  of  time  as  long  as  one  shadow  of  pagan 
darkness  lingers,— the  swelling  sails  spread  themselves  like 


A   SEQUEL   TO   LINDA.  255 

wings  to  the  breeze,  and  the  ship  "slowly,  majestically  began  to 
glide  along  the  waters. 

Sweet  and  grand  were  the  strains  that  were  wafted  after  the 
departing  vessel. 

"  From  Greenland's  icy  mountains, 

From  India's  coral  strand, 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 

Roll  down  their  golden  sand, — 
From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a  palmy  plain, 
They  call  us  to  deliver 

The  land  from  error's  chain." 

The  voice  of  Robert  was  heard  in  unison  with  those,  who, 
lingering  on  shore,  sang,  as  if  by  inspiration,  the  magnificent 
lines  ;  but  Linda's  lips  were  mute.  At  this  moment  she  was 
thinking  of  all  she  was  leaving  behind.  Her  spirit  was  hover 
ing  over  the  marble  monument  in  Rosavilla's  deserted  shades. 
She  looked  down  on  the  sea-green  waves,  and  remembered 
whose  winding-sheet  they  had  been.  The  voices  of  the  multi 
tude  sounded  like  the  echoes  of  a  far-off  land;  the  waters 
seemed  dashing  round  a  lone  and  barren  isle. 

She  looked  up  to  the  heavens  bending  over  them — the 
gorgeous  pavilion  of  God's  love,  and  her  spirit  rose  from  the 
shadows  of  the  past,  and  went  out  into  the  illimitable  future. 
There  was  her  home,  high  up  in  those  boundless  heavens,  and 
every  grave  of  earthly  hope  was  but  a  stepping-stone  to  her 
Father's  mansion. 

The  echoes  of  the  hymn  died  away, — the  ship  cut  the  waves 
with  a  rapid  wing, — the  shore  receded  from  her  view.  She 
turned  and  looked  up  into  the  dark,  glorious  eyes  now  watch 
ing  every  shadow  that  flitted  over  her  face,  and  the  present, 
glowing  with  life,  love,  and  joy,  came  rushing  back  to  her 
heart. 

"  Oh,  Robert!"  said  she,  leaning  on  his  now  wedded  bosom, 
while  his  arms  encircled  her  in  a  guardian  fold ;  "  henceforth 
I  am  all  your  own.  As  the  great  sea  surrounds  us;  separating 


256  ROBERT    GRAHAM. 

us  from  yonder  shore,  so  your  love  encircles  me,  and  my  soul 
is  borne  up  on  its  waves,  as  the  bark  upon  the  swelling  billows." 

"  And  as  the  heavens  rest  with  crowning  glory  on  the 
ocean,"  answered  Robert,  looking  up  into  the  resplendent 
dome  arching  overhead,  "  so  God's  love  encompasses  and  glo 
rifies  ours.  My  bride,  my  wife, — my  own  beloved  Linda, — 
great  and  immeasurable  as  is  my  love,  it  is  but  an  emanation 
of  the  divine  passion  which  filled  a  Saviour's  bosom  for  us. 
As  I  now  live  in  thee,  and  thou  in  me,  so  we  both  live  in 
Him,  and  He  dwelleth  with  us  forever." 

Onward  the  vessel  swept — onward  and  onward — till  those 
who  watched  its  receding  motions  could  no  longer  discern  the 
dark  outlines  of  Robert's  lofty  form,  or  the  softer  lineaments 
of  his  beauteous  bride.  Fainter  and  fainter  they  gleamed 
through  the  mist  of  distance,  till  nothing  but  a  dim  speck  ap 
peared  between  the  azure  heavens  and  the  dark  blue  sea. 


THE    END. 


BODES  SEIT  mimiii 

BOOKS  FOR  EVERYBODY  AT  GREATLY  REDUCED  RATES. 

PUBLISHED    AND    FOR    SALE    BY 

T.  B.  PETERSON, 

No.  102  Chestnut  Street,  Philad'a, 


IN  THIS  CATALOGUE  WILL  BE  FOUND  THE  LATEST 

AND  BEST  WORKS  BY  THE  MOST  POPULAR  AND 

CELEBRATED  WRITERS  IN  THE  WORLD. 

AMONG    WHICH     WILL     BE     FOUND 

CHARLES  DICKENS'S,  MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ'S,  SIR  E.  L 
BULWER'S,  G.  P.  R.  JAMES'S,  ELLEN  PICKERING'S,  CAPTAIN 
MARRYATT'S,  MRS.  GREY'S,  T.  S.  ARTHUR'S,  CHARLES  LEVER'S, 
ALEXANDRE  DUMAS',  W.  HARRISON  AINSWORTH'S,  DISRA 
ELI'S,  THACKERAY'S,  SAMUEL  WARREN'S,  EMERSON  BEN- 
KETT'S,  GEORGE  LIPPARD'S,  REYNOLDS',  C.  J.  PETERSON'S, 
PETERSON'S  HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  WORKS,  HENRY  COCK- 
TON'S,  EUGENE  SUE'S,  GEORGE  SANDS',  CURRER  BELL'S, 
AND  ALL  THE  OTHER  BEST  AUTHORS  IN  THE  WORLD. 


best  way  is  to  look  through  the  Catalogue,  and  see  what 
books  are  in  it.     You  will  all  be  amply  repaid  for  your  trouble. 


SPECIAL  NOTICE  TO  EVERYBODY.—  Any  person  whatever  in  this 
country,  wishing  any  of  the  works  in  this  Catalogue,  on  remitting  the  price 
of  the  ones  they  wish,  in  a  letter,  directed  to  T.  B.  Peterson,  No.  102 
Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia,  shall  have  them  sent  by  return  of  mail,  to 
any  place  in  the  United  States,  free  of  postage.  This  is  a  splendid  offer, 
as  any  one  can  get  books  to  the  most  remote  place  in  the  country,  for  the 
regular  price  sold  in  the  large  cities,  free  of  postage,  on  sending  for  them. 

gg@^  All  orders  thankfully  received  and  filled  with  despatch,  and  sent 
by  return  of  mail,  or  express,  or  stage,  or  in  any  other  way  the  person 
ordering  may  direct.  Booksellers,  News  Agents,  Pedlars,  and  all  others 
supplied  with  any  works  published  in  the  world,  at  the  lowest  rates. 

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Agents,  Pedlars,  Canvassers,  Booksellers,  News  Agents,  &c.f 
throughout  the  country,  who  wish  to  make  money  on  a  small  capital,  would 
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(1)  T,  B.  PETERSON,  No.  102  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia 


T.   B.   PETERSON, 

102  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia, 

HAS   JUST    PUBLISHED    AND    FOR    SALE 

STEREOTYPE  EDITIONS  OF  THE  FOLLOWING  WORKS, 

Which  will  be  found  to  be  the  Best  and  Latest  Publications,  by  the 
Most  Popular  and  Celebrated  Writers  in  the  World. 

Every  work  published  for  Sale  here,  either  at  Wholesale  or  Retail. 

All  Books  in  this  Catalogue  will  be  sent  to  any  one  to  any  place,  per  mail, 

free  of  postage,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


MRS.  SOUTHWORTH'S  Celebrated  WORKS. 

With  a  beautiful  Illustration  in  each  volume. 

RETRIBUTION.     A  TALE  OF  PASSION.     By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N. 

Southworth.      Complete   in   two   volumes,  paper  cover.      Price    One 

Dollar ;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
INDIA.  THE  PEARL  OF  PEARL  RIVER.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N. 

Southworth.     Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover.     Price  One 

Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
THE  MISSING  BRIDE;  OR,  MIRIAM  THE  AVENGER.  By  Mrs. 

Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.     Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover. 

Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

THE  LOST  HEIRESS.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  Being 
a  work  of  powerful  interest.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover. 
Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY;  AND  NINE  OTHER  NOUVELLETTES. 
By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper 
cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

THE  CURSE  OF  CLIFTON.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth. 
Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  DISCARDED  DAUGHTER.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth. 
Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  DESERTED  WIFE.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  Com  - 
plete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one 
volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  INITIALS.  A  LOVE  STORY  OF  MODERN  LIFE.  By  a  daugh- 
ter  of  the  celebrated  Lord  Erskine,  formerly  Lord  High  Chancellor  of 
England.  It  will  be  read  for  generations  to  come,  and  rank  by  the  side 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  celebrated  novels.  Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 
Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

The  whole  of  the  above  are  also  published  in  a  very  fine  style,  bound 
In  full  Crimson,  gilt  edges,  gilt  sides,  full  gilt  backs,  etc.,  and  make  very 
ele^'nt  and  beautiful  presentation  books.     Price  Two  Dollars  a  copy. 
(2) 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.      3 
CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 

The  best  and  most  popular  in  the  world.     Ten  different  editions.     No 

Library  can  be  complete  without  a  Sett  of  these  Works, 

Keprinted  from  the  Author's  last  Editions, 

"  PETERSON'S"  is  the  only  complete  and  uniform  edition  of  Charles 
Dickens'  works  published  in  America;  they  are  reprinted  from  the  original 
London  editions,  and  are  now  the  only  edition  published  in  this  country. 
No  library,  eitber  public  or  private,  can  be  complete  without  having  in  it 
a  complete  sett  of  the  works  of  this,  the  greatest  of  all  living  authors. 
Every  family  should  possess  a  sett  of  one  of  the  editions.  The  cheap 
edition  is  Complete  in  Twelve  Volumes,  paper  cover;  either  or  all  of  which 
can  be  had  separately.  Price  Fifty  cents  each.  The  following  are  their 
names. 

DAVID  COPPERFIELD,  DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES.      Con- 

NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY,  taining  The  Seven  Poor  Travellers. 

PICKWICK  PAPERS,  Nine  New  Stories  by  the  Christinas 

DOMBEY  AND  SON,  Fire.     Hard  Times.     Lizzie  Leigh. 

MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT,  The  Miner's  Daughters,  etc. 

BARNABY  RUDGE,  CHRISTMAS    STORIES.     Contain- 

OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP,  ing— A     Christmas     Carol.        The 

SKETCHES  BY  "BOZ,"  Chimes.      Cricket   on   the  Hearth. 

OLIVER  TWIST  Battle  of  Life.     Haunted  Man,  and 

BLEAK  HOUSE,  Pictures  from  Italy. 

A  complete  sett  of  the  above  edition,  twelve  volumes  in  all,  will  be  &s»nt 
to  any  one  to  any  place,  free  of  postage,  for  Five  Dollars. 


COMPLETE  LIBRARY  EDITION. 

In  FIVE  large  octavo  volumes,  with  a  Portrait,  on  Steel,  of  Charles 
Dickens,  containing  over  Four  Thousand  very  large  pages,  handsomely 
printed,  and  bound  in  various  styles. 
Volume  1  contains  Pickwick  Papers  and  Curiosity  Shop. 

"        2     do.         Oliver  Twist,  Sketches  by  «  Boz,"  and  Barnaby  Ru<3ge. 

"        3     do.        Nicholas  Nickleby  and  Martin  Chuzzlewit. 

"  4  do.  David  Copperfield,  Dombey  and  Son,  Christmas  Stories, 
and  Pictures  from  Italy. 

"  5  do.  Bleak  House,  and  Dickens'  New  Stories.  Containing 
— The  Seven  Poor  Travellers.  Nine  New  Stories 
by  the  Christmas  Fire.  Hard  Times.  Lizzie 
Leigh.  The  Miner's  Daughters,  and  Fortune 
Wildred,  etc. 

Price  of  a  complete  sett.     Bound  in  Black  cloth,  full  gilt  back,  $7  50 

"            "              "            "          scarlet  cloth,  extra,  8  50 

«             "               "             "           library  sheep,  9  00 

"             "              "             "           half  turkey  morocco,  11   00 

«             "               "             "           half  calf,  antique,  15  00 
Illustrated  Edition  is  described  on  next  page. 


4       T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
ILLUSTRATED  EDITION  OF  DICKENS'  WORKS. 

This  edition  is  printed  on  very  thick  and  fine  white  paper,  and  is  pro 
fusely  illustrated,  with  all  the  original  illustrations  by  Cruikshank,  Alfred 
Crowquill,  Phiz,  etc.,  from  the  original  London  edition,  on  copper,  steel, 
and  wood.  Each  volume  contains  a  novel  complete,  and  may  be  had  in 
complete  setts,  beautifully  bound  in  cloth,  for  Eighteen  Dollars  for  the 
ett  in  twelve  volumes,  or  any  volume  will  be  sold  separately,  as  follows: 


BLEAK  HOUSE,        Price,  $1  50 
PICKWICK  PAPERS,  1  50 

OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP,      1  50 
OLIVER  TWIST,  1  50 

SKETCHES  BY  "BOZ,"       1  50 
BARNABY  RUDGE,  1  50 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY,  $1  50 
MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT,  1  50 
DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  1  50 
DOMBEY  AND  SON,  1  50 

CHRISTMAS  STORIES,  1  50 
DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES,  1  50 


Price  of  a  complete  sett  of  the  Illustrated  Edition,  in  twelve 

vols.,  in  black  cloth,  gilt  back,  $18,00 

Price  of  a  complete  sett  of  the  Hlustrated  Edition,  in  twelve 

vols.,  in  full  law  library  sheep,  $24,00 

Price  of  a  complete  sett  of  the  Illustrated  edition,  in  twelve 

vols.,  in  half  turkey  Morocco,  $27,00 

Price  of  a  complete  sett  of  the  Illustrated  Edition,  in  twelve 

vols.,  in  half  calf,  antique,  $36,00 

All  subsequent  works  by  Charles  Dickens  will  be  issued  in  uniform  style  with 
all  the  previous  ten  different  editions. 

CAPTAIN  MARRYATT'S  WORKS. 

Either  of  which  can  be  had  separately.  Price  of  all  except  the  four  last 
is  25  cents  each.  They  are  printed  on  the  finest  white  paper,  and  each 
forms  one  large  octavo  volume,  complete  in  itself. 

PETER  SIMPLE.  NAVAL  OFFICER. 

JACOB  FAITHFUL.  PIRATE  AND  THREE  CUTTERS. 

THE  PHANTOM  SHIP.  SNARLEYYOW  ;  or,  the  Dog-Ficod. 

MIDSHIPMAN  EASY.  PERCIVAL  KEENE.     Price  50  cts. 

KING'S  OWN.  POOR  JACK.     Price  50  cents. 

NEWTON  FORSTER.  SEA  KING.     200  pages.     Price  50 

JAPHET  IN   SEARCH   OP  cents. 

A  FATHER.  VALERIE.     His  last  Novel.     Price 

PACHA  OF  MANY  TALES.  50  cents. 

ELLEN  PICKERING'S  NOVELS. 

Either  of  which  can  be  had  separately.  Price  25  cents  each.  They  are 
printed  on  the  finest  white  paper,  and  each  forms  one  large  octavo  volume, 
complete  in  itself,  neatly  bound  in  a  strong  paper  cover. 

THE  ORPHAN  NIECE.  THE  HEIRESS. 

KATE  WALSINGHAM.  PRINCE  AND  PEDLER. 

THE  POOR  COUSIN.  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

ELLEN  WAREHAM.  THE  FRIGHT. 

THE  QUIET  HUSBAND.  NAN  DARRELL. 

WHO  SHALL  BE  HEIR  THE  SQUIRE. 

THE  SECRET  FOE.  THE  EXPECTANT. 

AGNES  SKRLE.  THE  GRUMBLER.  50  cts. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.      5 
MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ'S  WORKS. 

COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE  JOYS  AND  SORROWS 
OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  With  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.  Complete 
in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one 
volume,  cloth  gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE.  With  illustrations.  Com- 
plete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover,  600  pages,  price  One  Dollar, 
or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

IXDA;  OR,  THE  YOUNG  PILOT  OF  THE  BELLE  CREOLE.  Com 
plete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one 
volume,  cloth  gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

ROBERT  GRAHAM.  The  Sequel  to,  and  continuation  of  Linda.  Be. 
ing  the  last  book  but  one  that  Mrs.  Hentz  wrote  prior  to  her  death. 
Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or 
bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

RENA  j  OR,  THE  SNOW  BIRD.  A  Tale  of  Real  Life.  Complete  in  two 
volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth  gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

MARCUS  WARLAND;  OR,  THE  LONG  MOSS  SPRING.    A  Tale  of 

the  South.     Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar, 
or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

LOVE  AFTER  MARRIAGE  ;  and  other  Stories.  Complete  in  two  vol 
umes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloih 
gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

EOLINE  j  OR,  MAGNOLIA  VALE.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper 
cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1  25. 

THE  BANISHED  SON;  and  other  Stories.  Complete  in  two  volumes, 
paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1  25. 

HELEN  AND  ARTHUR.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price 
One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1  25. 

The  whole  of  the  above  are  also  published  in  a  very  fine  style,  bound 
in  the  very  best  and  most  elegant  and  substantial  manner,  in  full  Crimson, 
with  beautifully  gilt  edges,  full  gilt  sides,  gilt  backs,  etc.,  etc.,  making 
them  the  best  and  most  acceptable  books  for  presentation  at  the  price, 
published  in  the  country.  Price  of  either  one  in  this  style,  Two  Dollars. 

T.   S.  ARTHUR'S  WORKS. 

Either  of  which  can  be  had  separately.     Price  25  cents  each.     They  are 

the  most  moral,  popular  and  entertaining  in  the  world.     There  are  no 

etter  books  to  place  in  the  hands  of  the  young.     All  will  profit  by  them. 

YEAR  AFTER  MARRIAGE.  TRIAL  AND  TRIUMPH. 

THE  DIVORCED  WIFE.  THE  ORPHAN  CHILDREN. 

THE  BANKER'S  WIFE.  THE  DEBTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 

PRIDE  AND  PRUDENCE.  INSUBORDINATION. 

CECILIA  HOWARD.  LUCY  SANDFORD. 

MARY  MORETON.  AGNES,  or  the  Possessed. 

LOVE  IN  A  COTTAGE.  THE  TWO  BRIDES. 

LOVE  IN  HIGH  LIFE.  THE  IRON  RULE. 

THE  TWO  MERCHANTS.  THE  OLD  ASTROLOGER 

LADY  AT  HOME.  THE  SEAMSTRESS. 


6      T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
CHARLES  LEVER'S  NOVELS. 

CHARLES  O'MALLEY,  the  Irish  Dragoon.  By  Charles  Lever.  Com 
plete  in  one  large  octavo  volume  of  324  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or 
an  edition  on  finer  paper,*bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One 
Dollar. 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  GWYNNE.  A  tale  of  the  time  of  the  Union.  By 
Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one  fine  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty 
cents ;  or  an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated. 
Price  One  Dollar. 

JACK  HINTON,  the  Guarcbman.  By  Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one 
large  octavo  volume  of  400  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents;  or  an  edition 
on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

TOM  BURKE  OF  OURS.  By  Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one  large 
octavo  volume  of  300  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents;  or  an  edition  on 
finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

ARTHUR  O'LEARY.  By  Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume.  Price  Fifty  cents;  or  an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in 
cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

KATE  O'DONOGIIUE.  A  Tale  of  Ireland.  By  Charles  Lever.  Com- 
plete  in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  »j-  an  edition 
on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

HORACE  TEMPLETON.  By  Charles  Lever.  This  is  Lever's  New 
Book.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents  ;  01 
an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

HARRY  LORREQUER.  By  Charles  Lever,  author  of  the  above  seven 
works.  Complete  in  one  octavo  volume  of  402  pages.  Price  Fifty 
cents ;  or  an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price 
One  Dollar. 

VALENTINE  VOX.— LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  VALENTINE 
VOX,  the  Ventriloquist.  By  Henry  Cockton.  One  of  the  most 
humorous  books  ever  published.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or  an  edition  ">n 
finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth.  Price  One  Dollar. 

PERCY  EFFINGHAM.  By  Henry  Cockton,  author  of  "  Valentine  Vox, 
the  Ventriloquist."  One  large  octavo  volume.  Price  50  cents. 

TEN  THOUSAND  A  YEAR.  By  Samuel  C.  Warren.  With  Portraits! 
of  Snap,  Quirk,  Gammon,  and  Tittlebat  Titmouse,  Esq.  Two  large 
octavo  vols.,  of  547  pages.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  an  edition  on  finer 
paper,  bound  in  cloth,  $1,50. 

CHARLES  J.  PETERSON'S  WORKS. 

KATE  AYLESFORD.  A  story  of  the  Refugees.  One  of  the  most  popu 
lar  books  ever  printed.  Comp  etc  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover. 
Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  gilt.  Price  $1  25. 

CRUISING  IN  THE  LAST  WAR.  A  Naval  Story  of  the  War  of  1812. 
First  and  Second  Series.  Being  the  complete  work,  unabridged.  By 
Charles  J.  Peterson.  228  octavo  pages.  Price  50  cents. 

GRACE  DUDLEY;  OR,  ARNOLD  AT  SARATOGA.  By  Charles  J. 
Peterson.  Illustrated.  Price  25  cents. 

THE  VALLEY  FARM;  OR,  the  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  OR- 
PHAN.  A  companion  to  Jane  Eyre.  Price  25  cents. 


T.  E.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.       7 
EUGENE  SUE'S  NOVELS. 

THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS;  AND  GEROLSTEIN,- the  Sequel  to  it. 
By  Eugene  Sue,  author  of  the  "Wandering  Jew,"  and  the  greatest 
work  ever  written.  With  illustrations.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes, 
octavo.  Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  ILLUSTRATED  WANDERING  JEW.  By  Eugene  Sue.  With 
87  large  illustrations.  Two  large  octavo  volumes.  Price  One  Dollar. 

HE  FEMALE  BLUEBEARD;  or,  the  Woman  with  many  Husbands 
By  Eugene  Sue.     Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

FIRST  LOVE.  A  Story  of  the  Heart.  By  Eugene  Sue.  Price  Twenty- 
five  cents. 

WOMAN'S  LOVE.  A  Novel.  By  Eugene  Sue.  Illustrated.  Price 
Twenty-five  cents. 

MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN.  A  Tale  of  the  Sea.  By  Eugene  Sue.  Price 
Twenty-five  cents. 

EAOUL  DE  SURVILLE;  or,  the  Times  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  in  1810. 
Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

SIR  E.  L.  BULWER'S  NOVELS. 

FALKLAND.     A  Novel.     By  Sir  E.  L.  Bulwer,  author  of  "  The  Roue/' 

"  Oxonians,"  etc.     One  volume,  octavo.     Price  25  cents.      . 

THE  ROUE;  OR  THE  HAZARDS  OF  WOMEN.     Price  25  cents. 
THE  OXONIANS.     A  Sequel  to  the  Roue.     Price  25  cents. 
CALDERON,  THE  COURTIER.     By  Bulwer.     Price  12£  cents. 

MRS.  GREY'S  NOVELS. 

Either  of  which  can  be  had  separately.  Price  25  cents  each.  They  are 
printed  on  the  finest  white  paper,  and  each  forms  one  large  octavo  volume, 
complete  in  itself,  neatly  bound  in  a  strong  paper  cover. 

DUKE  AND  THE  COUSIN.  THE  YOUNG  PRIMA  DONNA. 

GIPSY'S  DAUGHTER.  THE  OLD  DOWER  HOUS& 

BELLE  OF  THE  FAMILY.  HYACINTHS. 

SYBIL  LENNARD.  ALICE  SEYMOUR. 

THE  LITTLE  WIFE.  HARRY  MONK. 

MANOEUVRING  MOTHER.  MARY  SEAHAM.    250   pages. 
LENA    CAMERON ;    or,   the   Four  Price  50  cents. 

Sisters.  PASSION  AND    PRINCIPLE 
HE  BARONET'S  DAUGHTERS.  200  pages.     Price  50  cents. 

GEORGE  W.  M.  REYNOLD'S  WORKS. 

THE  NECROMANCER.  A  Romance  of  the  times  of  Henry  the  Eighth. 
By  G.  W.  M.  Reynolds.  One  large  volume.  Price  75  cents. 

THE  PARRICIDE;  OR,  THE  YOUTH'S  CAREER  IN  CRIME.  *5y 
G.  W.  M.  Reynolds.  Full  of  beautiful  illustrations.  Price  50  cents. 

LIFE  IN  PARIS:  OR,  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ALFRED  DE  ROSAN^ 
IN  THE  METROPOLIS  OF  FRANCE.  By  G.  W.  M.  Reynold* 
Full  of  Engravings.  Price  50  cents. 


8       T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
AINSWORTH'S  WORKS. 

JACK  SHEPPARD.— PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OP 
JACK  SHEPPARD,  the  most  noted  burglar,  robber,  and  jail  breaker, 
that  ever  lived.  Embellished  with  Thirty-nine,  full  page,  spirited 
Illustrations,  designed  and  engraved  in  the  finest  style  of  art,  by 
George  Cruikshank,  Esq.,  of  London.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

ILLUSTRATED  TOWER  OF  LONDON.  With  100  splendid  engravings. 
Ibis  is  beyond  all  doubt  one  of  the  most  interesting  works  ever 
published  in  the  known  world,  and  can  be  read  and  re-read  with 
pleasure  and  satisfaction  by  everybody.  We  advise  all  persons  to 
get  it  and  read  it.  Two  volumes,  octavo.  Price  One  Dollar. 

PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  GUY  FAWKES,  Tho 
Chief  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason.  The  Bloody  Tower,  etc.  Illustrated 
By  William  Harrison  Ainsworth.  200  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

THE  STAR  CHAMBER.  An  Historical  Romance.  By  W.  Harrison 
Ainsworth.  With  17  large  full  page  illustrations.  Price  50  cents. 

THE  PICTORIAL  OLD  ST.  PAUL'S.  By  William  Harrison  Ainsworth. 
Full  of  Illustrations.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

MYSTERIES  9F  THE  COURT  OF  QUEEN  ANNE.  By  William 
Harrison  Ainsworth.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

MYSTERIES  OF  THE  COURT  OF  THE  STUARTS.  By  Ainsworth. 
Being  one  of  the  most  interesting  Historical  Romances  ever  written. 
One  largo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

DICK  TURPIN.— ILLUSTRATED  LIFE  OF  DICK  TURPIN,  the 
Highwayman,  Burglar,  Murderer,  etc.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

HENRY  THOMAS.— LIFE  OF  HARRY  THOMAS,  the  Western  Burglar 
and  Murderer.  Full  of  Engravings.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

DESPERADOES.— ILLUSTRATED  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF 
THE  DESPERADOES  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD.  Full  of  engravings. 
Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

NIXON  DE  L'ENCLOS.— LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  NINON 
DE  L'ENCLOS,  with  her  Letters  on  Love,  Courtship  and  Marriage. 
Illustrated.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  PICTORIAL  NEWGATE  CALENDAR;  or  the  Chronicles  of  Crime. 
Beautifully  illustrated  with  Fifteen  Engravings.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

PICTORIAL  LIFE   AND    ADVENTURES    OF   DAVY   CROCKETT. 

Written  by  himself.     Beautifully  illustrated.     Price  Fifty  cents. 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  ARTHUR  SPRING,  the  murderer  of 
Mrs.  Ellen  Lynch  and  Mrs.  Honora  Shaw,  with  a  complete  history  of 
his  life  and  misdeeds,  from  the  time  of  his  birth  until  he  was  hung. 
Illustrated  with  portraits.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

JACK  ADAMS.— PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  JACK 
ADAMS;  the  celebrated  Sailor  and  Mutineer.  By  Captain  Cbamier, 
author  of  "  The  Spitfire."  Full  of  illustrations.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

GRACE  O'M^LLEY.— PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF 
GRACE  O'MALLEY.  By  William  H.  Maxwell,  author  of  "Wild 
Sports  in  the  West."  Price  Fifty  cents. 

E  PIRATE'S  SON.     A  Sea  Novel  of  great  interest.     Full  of  beautiful 
illustrations.     Price  Twenty-five  cents. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OP  PUBLICATIONS.      9 
ALEXANDUE  DUMAS'  WOUKS. 

THE  IRON  MASK,  OR  THE  FEATS  AND  ADVENTURES  OF 
RAOULE  DE  BRAGELONNE.  Being  the  conclusion  of  "The 
Three  Guardsmen,"  "  Twenty  Years  After,"  and  "  Bragelonne."  By 
Alexandre  Dumas.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  of  420  octavo 
pages,  with  beautifully  Illustrated  Covers,  Portraits,  and  Engravings. 
Price  One  Dollar. 

OUISE  LA  VALLIERE;  OR  THE  SECOND  SERIES  AND  FINALi 
END  OF  THE  IRON  MASK.  By  Alexandre  Dumas.  This  work 
is  the  final  end  of  "The  Three  Guardsmen,"  "Twenty  Years  After," 
"Bragelonne,"  and  "The  Iron  Mask,"  and  is  of  far  more  interesting 
and  absorbing  interest,  tha»  any  of  its  predecessors.  Complete  in 
two  large  octavo  volumes  of  over  400  pages,  printed  on  the  best  of 
paper,  beautifully  illustrated.  It  also  contains  correct  Portraits  of 
"  Louise  La  Valliere,"  and  "  The  Hero  of  the  Iron  Mask."  Price  One 
Dollar. 

THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  PHYSICIAN;  OR  THE  SECRET  HISTORY  OF 
LOUIS  THE  FIFTEENTH.  By  Alexandre  Dumas.  It  is  beautifully 
embellished  with  thirty  engravings,  which  illustrate  the  principal 
scenes  and  characters  of  the  different  heroines  throughout  the  work. 
Complete  in  two  large  octavo  volumes.  Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  QUEEN'S  NECKLACE  :  OR  THE  SECRET  HISTORY  OF  THE 
COURT  OF  LOUIS  THE  SIXTEENTH.  A  Sequel  to  the  Memoirs 
of  a  Physician.  By  Alexandre  Dumas.  It  is  beautifully  illustrated 
with  portraits  of  the  heroines  of  the  work.  Complete  in  two  largo 
octavo  volumes  of  over  400  pages.  Price  One  Dollar. 

SIX  YEARS  LATER;  OR  THE   TAKING  OF  THE  BASTILE.     By 

Alexandre  Dumas.  Being  the  continuation  of  "  The  Queen's  Neck 
lace;  or  the  Secret  History  of  the  Court  of  Louis  the  Sixteenth,"  and 
"Memoirs  of  a  Physician."  Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume. 
Price  Seventy-five  cents. 

COUNTESS  DE  CHARNY;  OR  THE  FALL  OF  THE  FRENCH 
MONARCHY.  By  Alexandre  Dumas.  This  work  is  the  final  con 
clusion  of  the  "Memoirs  of  a  Physician,"  "The  Queen's  Necklace," 
and  "  Six  Years  Later,  or  Taking  of  the  Bastile."  All  persons  who 
have  not  read  Dumas  in  this,  his  greatest  and  most  instructive  pro 
duction,  should  begin  at  once,  and  no  pleasure  will  be  found  so 
agreeable,  and  nothing  in  novel  form  so  useful  and  absorbing.  Com 
plete  in  two  volumes,  beautifully  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

DIANA  OF  MERIDOR;  THE  LADY  OF  MONSOREAU;  or  France  in 
the  Sixteenth  Century.     By  Alexandre  Dumas.     An  Historical  Ro 
mance.     Complete  in  two  large  octavo  volumes  of  538  pages,  wit 
nvnerous  illustrative  engravings.     Price  One  Dollar. 

ISABEL  OF  BAVARIA;  or  the  Chronicles  of  France  for  the  reign  of 
Charles  the  Sixth.  Complete  in  one  fine  octavo  volume  of  211  pages, 
printed  on  the  finest  white  paper.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

EDMOND  DANTES.  Being  the  sequel  to  Dumas'  celebrated  novel  of 
the  Count  of  Monte  Cristo.  With  elegant  illustrations.  Complete  in 
one  large  octavo  volume  of  over  200  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

THE  CORSICAN  BROTHERS.  This  work  has  already  been  dramatized , 
and  is  now  played  in  all  the  theatres  of  Europe  and  in  this  country, 
and  it  is  exciting  an  extraordinary  interest.  Price  Twenty -five  cents. 


10     T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
ALEXANDRE  DUMAS'  WORKS. 

SKETCHES  IN  FRANCE.  By  Alexandra  Dumas.  It  is  as  good  a 
book  as  Thackeray's  Sketches  in  Ireland.  Dumas  never  wrote  a 
better  book.  It  is  the  most  delightful  book  of  the  season.  Price 

Fifty -cents. 

GENEVIEVE,  OR  THE  CHEVALIER  OF  THE  MAISON  ROUGE. 
By  Alexanclre  Dumas.  An  Historical  Romance  of  the  French  Revo 
lution.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume  of  over  200  pages, 
with  numerous  illustrative  engravings.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

GEORGE  LIPPARD'S  WORKS. 

WASHINGTON  AND  HIS  GENERALS;  or,  Legends  of  the  American 
Revolution.  Complete  in  two  large  octa-vo  volumes  of  538  pages, 
printed  on  the  finest  white  paper.  Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  QUAKER  CITY;  or,  the  Monks  of  Monk  Hall.  A  Romance  of 
Philadelphia  Life,  Mystery  and  Crime.  Illustrated  with  numerous 
Engravings.  Complete  in  two  large  octavo  volumes  of  500  pages. 
Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  LADYE  OF  ALBARONE;  or,  the  Poison  Goblet.  A  Romance  of 
the  Dark  Ages.  Lippai-d's  Last  Work,  and  never  before  published. 
Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Seventy-five  cents. 

PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  the  Monk  of  Wissahickon.  A  Romance  of  the 
Revolution.  Illustrated  with  numerous  engravings.  Complete  in 
two  large  octavo  volumes,  of  nearly  600  pages.  Price  One  Dollar. 

BLANCHE  OF  BRANDYWINE ;  or,  September  the  Eleventh,  1777".  A 
Romance  of  the  Poetry,  Legends,  and  History  of  the  Battle  of  Brandy- 
wine.  It  makes  a  large  octavo  volume  of  350  pages,  printed  on  the 
finest  white  paper.  Price  Seventy-five  cents. 

LEGENDS  OF  MEXICO;  or,  Battles  of  General  Zachary  Taylor,  late 
President  of  the  United  States.  Complete  in  one  octavo  volume  of 
128  pages.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  NAZARENE;  or,  the  Last  of  the  Washingtons.  A  Revelation  of 
Philadelphia,  New  York,  and  Washington,  in  the  year  1844.  Com 
plete  in  one  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

B.  DISRAELI'S  NOVELS. 

VIVIAN  GREY.  By  B.  D'Israeli,  M.  P.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume  of  225  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

HE  YOUNG  DUKE ;  or  the  younger  days  of  George  the  Fourth.     By 
B.  D'Israeli,  M.   P.     One  octavo  volume.     Price  Thirty-eigM  cents, 

VENETIA ;  or,  Lord  Byron  and  his  Daughter.  By  B.  D'Israeli,  M.  P. 
Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

HENRIETTA  TEMPLE.  A  Love  Story.  By  B.  D'Israeli,  M.  P.  Com 
plete  in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

CONTARINA  FLEMING.     An  Autobiography.     By  B.  D'Israeli,  M.  P. 

One  volume,  octavo.     Price  Thirty-eight  cents. 

MIRIAM  ALROY.  A  Romance  of  the  Twelfth  Century.  By  B.  D'Israeli, 
M.  P.  One  volume  octavo.  Price  Thirty-eight  cents. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.      11 
EMERSON  BENNETT'S  WORKS. 

CLARA  MORELAND.  This  is  a  powerfully  written  romance.  Thf 
characters  are  boldly  drawn,  the  plot  striking,  the  incidents  repleta 
with  thrilling  interest,  and  the  language  and  descriptions  natural  an<? 
graphic,  as  are  all  of  Mr.  Bennett's  Works.  336  pages.  Price  50 
cents  in  paper  cover,  or  One  Dollar  in  cloth,  gilt. 

VIOLA;  OR,  ADVENTURES  IN  THE  FAR  SOUTH-WEST.  Com- 
plete  in  one  large  volume.  Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  75  cent* 
in  cloth,  gilt. 

THE  FORGED  WILL.  Complete  in  one  large  volume,  of  over  300 
pages,  paper  cover,  price  50  cents;  or  bound  in  cloth,  gilt,  price  $1  Oo. 

KATE  CLARENDON;  OR,  NECROMANCY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 
Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  75  cents  in  cloth,  gilt. 

BRIDE  OF  THE  WILDERNESS.  Complete  in  one  large  volume. 
Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  75  cents  in  cloth,  gilt. 

THE  PIONEER'S  DAUGHTER;  and  THE  UNKNOWN  COUNTESS. 
By  Emerson  Bennett.  Price  50  cents. 

HEIRESS  OF  BELLEFONTE ;  aiid  WALDE-WARREN.  A  Tale  of 
Circumstantial  Evidence.  By  Emerson  Bennett.  Price  50  cents. 

ELLEN  NORBURY;  OR,  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  AN  ORPHAN. 
Complete  in  one  large  volume,  price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  in 
tfoth  gilt,  $1  00. 

MISS  LESLIE'S  NEW  COOK  BOOK. 

MISS  LESLIE'S  NE*W  RECEIPTS  FOR  COOKING.  Comprising  new 
an»d  approved  methods  of  preparing  all  kinds  of  soups,  fish,  oysters, 
terrapins,  turtle,  vegetables,  meats,  poultry,  game,  sauces,  pickles, 
sweet  meats,  cakes,  pies,  puddings,  confectionery,  rice,  Indian  meal 
preparations  of  all  kinds,  domestic  liquors,  perfumery,  remedies, 
laundry-work,  needle-work,  letters,  additional  receipts,  etc.  Also, 
list  of  articles 'suited  to  go  together  for  breakfasts,  dinners,  and  sup 
pers,  and  much  useful  information  and  many  miscellaneous  subjects 
connected  with  general  house-wifery.  It  is  an  elegantly  printed  duo 
decimo  volume  of  520  pages ;  and  in  it  there  will  be  found  One  Thou 
sand  and  Eleven  new  Receipts — all  useful — some  ornamental — and  all 
invaluable  to  every  lady,  miss,  or  family  in  the  world.  This  work  haa 
had  a  very  extensive  sale,  and  many  thousand  copies  have  been  sold, 
and  the  demand  is  increasing  yearly,  being  the  most  complete  work 
of  the  kind  published  in  the  world,  and  also  the  latest  and  best,  as, 
in  addition  to  Cookery,  its  receipts  for  making  cakes  and  confec 
tionery  are  unequalled  by  any  other  work  extant.  New  edition,  en  - 
larged  and  improved,  and  handsomely  bound.  Price  One  Tallar  a 
copy  only.  This  is  the  only  new  Cook  Book  by  Miss  Leslie. 

GEORGE  SANDS'  WORKS, 

FIRST  AND  TRUE  LOVE.  A  True  Love  Story.  By  George  Sand, 
author  of  "  Consuelo,"  "  Indiana,"  etc.  It  is  one  of  the  most  charm 
ing  and  interesting  works  ever  published.  Illustrated.  Price  50  cents. 

INDIANA.  By  George  Sand,  author  of  "First  and  True  Love."  etc. 
A  very  bewitching  and  interesting  work.  Price  50  cents. 

THE  CORSAIR.    A  Venetian  Tale.     Price  25  tents. 


12     T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 

HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  WORKS. 

WITH  ORIGINAL  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  DARLEY  AND   OTHERS, 

AND  BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUMINATED  COVERS. 

We  have  just  published  new  and  beautiful  editions  of  the  following 
HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  WORKS.  They  are  published  in  the  best 
possible  style,  full  of  original  Illustrations,  by  DarJ*y,  descriptive  of  all  the 
best  scenes  in  each  work,  with  Illuminated  Covers,  with  new  and  beautiful 
designs  on  each,  and  are  printed  on  the  finest  and  best  of  white  paper. 
There  are  no  works  to  compare  with  them  in  point  of  wit  and  humor,  in 
the  whole  world.  The  price  of  each  work  is  Fifty  cents  only. 

THE  FOLLOWING  ARE  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  WORKS. 

MAJOR  JONES'  COURTSHIP :  detailed,  with  other  Scenes,  Incidents, 
and  Adventures,  in  a  Series  of  Letters,  by  himself.  With  Thirteen 
Illustrations  from  designs  by  Barley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

DRAMA  IN  POKERVILLE:  the  Bench  and  Bar  of  Jurytown,  and 
other  Stories.  By  "Everpoint,"  (J.  M.  Field,  of  the  St.  Louis 
Reveille.)  With  Illustrations  from  designs  by  Darley.  Fifty  cents. 

CHARCOAL  SKETCHES ;  or,  Scenes  in  the  Metropolis.  By  Joseph  C. 
Neal,  author  of  "Peter  Ploddy,"  "Misfortunes  of  Peter  Faber,"  etc. 
With  Illustrations.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

YANKEE  AMONGST  THE  MERMAIDS,  and  other  Waggeries  and 
Vagaries.  By  W.  E.  Burton,  Comedian.  With  Illustrations  by 
Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

MISFORTUNES  OF  PETER  FABER,  and  other  Sket-hes.  By  the 
author  of  "Charcoal  Sketches."  With  Illustrations  Oy  Darley  and 
others.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

MAJOR  JONES'  SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL,  comprising  the  Scenes, 
Incidents,  and  Adventures  in  his  Tour  from  Georgia  to  Canada. 
With  Eight  Illustrations  from  Designs  by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

STREAKS  OF  SQUATTER  LIFE,  and  Far  West  Scenes.  A  Series  of 
humorous  Sketches,  descriptive  of  Incidents  and  Character  in  the 
Wild  West.  By  the  author  of  "Major  Jones'  Courtship,"  "  Swallow 
ing  Oysters  Alive,"  etc.  With  Illustrations  from  designs  by  Darley. 
Price  Fifty  cents. 

QUARTER  RACE  IN  KENTUCKY,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.  By 
W.  T.  Porter,  Esq.,  of  the  New  York  Spirit  of  the  Times.  With 
Eight  Illustrations  and  designs  by  Darley.  Complete  in  one  volume. 
Price  Fifty  cents. 

SIMON  SUGGS.— ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SIMON  SUGGS,  late 
of  the  Tallapoosa  Volunteers,  together  with  "Taking  the  Census," 
and  other  Alabama  Sketches.  By  a  Country  Editor.  With  a  Portrait 
Irorn  Life,  and  Nine  other  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

fllVAL  BELLES.  By  J.  B.  Jones,  author  of  "Wild  Western  Scenes," 
etc.  This  is  a  very  humorous  and  entertaining  work,  and  one  t'  \t 
will  be  recorninonded  by  all  after  reading  it.  Price  Fifty  cents. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.     13 

»J»«r»  .  . .......... .       .         —  ......  -—..,-.       MI  ^ 

HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  WORKS. 

TANITEE  YARNS  AND  YANKEE  LETTERS.  By  Sam  Slick,  alias 
Judge  Haliburton.  Full  of  the  drollest  humor  that  has  ever  emanated 
from  the  pen  of  any  author.  Every  page  will  set  you  in  a  roar. 
Price  Fifty  cents. 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  COL.  VANDERBOMB,  AND  THE 
EXPLOITS  OF  HIS  PRIVATE  SECRETARY.  By  J.  B.  Jones, 
author  of  "  The  Rival  Belles,"  "  Wild  Western  Scenes,"  etc.  Price 
Fifty  cents. 

BIG  BEAR  OF  ARKANSAS,  and  other  Sketches,  illustrative  of  Charac 
ters  and  Incidents  in  the  South  and  South-West.  Edited  by  Win.  T. 
Porter.  With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

MAJOR  JONES'  CHRONICLES  OF  PINEVILLE;  embracing  Sketches 
of  Georgia  Scenes,  Incidents,  and  Characters.  By  the  author  of 
"Major  Jones'  Courtship,"  etc.  With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Price 
Fifty  cents. 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF   PERCIVAL   MABERRY.     By  J.  H. 

Ingraham.  It  will  interest  and  please  everybody.  All  who  enjoy  a 
good  laugh  should  get  it  at  once.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

FRANK  FORESTER'S  QUORNDON  HOUNDS;  or,  A  Virginian  at 
Melton  Mowbray.  By  H.  W.  Herbert,  Esq.  With  Illustrations. 
Price  Fifty  cents. 

PICKINGS  FROM  THE  PORTFOLIO  OF  THE  REPORTER  OF  THE 
"NEW  ORLEANS  PICAYUNE."  Comprising  Sketches  of  the 
Eastern  Yankee,  the  Western  Hoosier,  and  such  others  as  make  up 
society  in  the  great  Metropolis  of  the  South.  With  Illustrations  by 
Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

FRANK  FORESTER'S  SHOOTING  BOX.  By  the  author  of  "The 
Quorndon  Hounds,"  "  The  Deer  Stalkers,"  etc.  With  Illustrations  by 
Darley.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

STRAY  SUBJECTS  ARRESTED  AND  BOUND  OVER;  being  the 
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FRANK  FORESTER'S  DEER  STALKERS  ;  a  Tale  of  Circumstantial 
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ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  FARRAGO.     By  Hon.  II.  H.  Bracken. 

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THE  CHARMS  OF  PARIS;  or,  Sketches  of  Travel  and  Adventures  by 
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PETER  PLODDY,  and  other  oddities.  By  the  author  of  "Charcoal 
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14     T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  WORKS. 

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SOL.  SMITH ;  THEATRICAL  APPRENTICESHIP  AND  ANECDOTAL 
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60L.  SMITH'S  NEW  BOOK;  THE  THEATRICAL  JOURNEY-WORK 
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POLLY  PEABLOSSOM'S  WEDDING,  and  other  Tales.  By  the  author 
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LOUISIANA  SWAMP  DOCTOR.     By  Madison  Tensas,  M.  D.,  Ex.  V.  P. 

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FRENCH,  GERMAN,  SPANISH,  LATIN,  AND 
ITALIAN  LANGUAGES. 

Any  person  unacquainted  with  either  of  the  above  languages,  can,  with 
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FRENCH  WITHOUT  A  MASTER.     In  Six  Easy  Lessons. 
GERMAN  WITHOUT  A  MASTER.     In  Six  Easy  Lessons. 
SPANISH  WITHOUT  A  MASTER.     In  Four  Easy  Lessons. 
ITALIAN  WITHOUT  A  MASTER.     In  Five  Easy  Lessons. 
LATIN   WITHOUT  A  MASTER.      In  Six  Easy  Lessons. 

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T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.     15 
WORKS  BY  THE  BEST  AUTHORS. 

FLIRTATIONS  IN  AMERICA;  OR  HIGH  LIFE  IN  NEW  YORK.    A 

capital  book.     285  pages.     Price  50  cents. 

DON  QUIXOTTE.— ILLUSTRATED  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF 
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IHE  ROMISH  CONFESSIONAL;  or,  the  Auricular  Confession  and  Spi 
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SALATHIEL;  OR,  THE  WANDERING  JEW.  By  Rev.  George  Croly. 
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LLORENTE'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  INQUISITION  IN  SPAIN.  Only 
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DR.   HOLLICK'S   NEW   BOOK.     ANATOMY    AND    PHYSIOLOGY, 

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MYSTERIES  OF  THREE  CITIES.  Boston,  New  York,  and  Philadel 
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RED  INDIANS  OF  NEWFOUNDLAND.  A  beautifully  illustrated  In 
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ley.  Pricq  50  cents. 


16     T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
WORKS  BY  THE  BEST  AUTHORS. 

SKETCHES  IN  IRELAND.  By  William  M.  Thackeray,  author  of 
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THE  ROMAN  TRAITOR;  OR,  THE  DAYS  OF  CATALINE  AND 
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THE  LADY'S  WORK-TABLE  BOOK.  Full  of  plates,  designs,  diagrams, 
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THE  COQUETTE.  One  of  the  best  books  ever  written.  One  volume,  oc 
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WHITEFRIARS;  OR,  THE  DAYS  OF  CHARLES  THE  SECOND.  An 
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THE  ABBEY  OF  INNISMOYLE.  By  Grace  Kennady,  author  of  "  Fa 
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THE  FORTUNE  HUNTER;  a  novel  of  New  York  society,  Upper  and 
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POCKET  LIBRARY  OF  USEFUL  KNOWLEDGE.  New  and  enlarged 
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HENRY  CLAY'S  PORTRAIT.  Nagle's  correct,  full  length  Mezzotinto 
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T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.     17 
WORKS  BY  THE  BEST  AUTHORS. 

THE  TWO  LOVERS.  A  Domestic  Story.  It  is  a  highly  interesting  and 
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18     T.  B.  PETEESOFS  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
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T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.     19 
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Trade,  Strangers  in  the  City,  and  the  public  generally,  to  call  an<I  examine  his  ex« 
tensive  collection  of  all  kinds  of  publications,  where  they  will  bf  sure  to  find  all  tho 
vest,  latest,  and  clieapest  worn-s  published  in  this  country  or  elsewhere,  for  sale  very  low. 


THE  DESERTED  WIFE, 

BY  MRS.  EMMA  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH. 

A.TJTHOR  OF  "THE  LOST  HEIRESS,"  "THE  MISSING  BRIDE,"  "WIFE'S  VICTORY/' 
"CURSE  OF  CLIFTON,"    "DISCARDED  DAUGHTER,"  ETC.,  ETC. 

Complete  in  one  vol.,  bound  in  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty- 
five  Cents;  or  in  two  vols.,  paper  cover,  for  One  Dollar. 

The  announcement  of  a  new  book  by  Mrs.  Southworth,  the  author  of  "The  Lost  Heir- 
883,"  is  a  matter  of  great  interest  to  all  that  love  to  read  and  admire  pure  and  chaste 
American  works.  It  is  a  new  work  of  unusual  power  and  thrilling  interest.  The  scene 
is  laid  in  one  of  the  southern  States,  and  the  story  gives  a  picture  of  the  manners  and 
customs  of  the  planting  gentry,  in  an  age  not  far  removed  backward  from  the  present. 
The  characters  are  drawn  with  a  strong  hand,  and  the  book  abounds  with  scenes  of 
intense  interest,  the  whole  plot  being  wrought  out  with  much  power  and  effect;  and  no 
one,  we  are  confident,  can  read  it  without  acknowledging  that  it  possesses  more  thaiv 
ordinary  merit.  The  author  is  a  writer  of  remarkable  genius  and  originality — manifesting 
•wonderful  power  in  the  vivid  depicting  of  character,  and  in  her  glowing  descriptions  of 
ecenery.  1 1  agar,  the  heroine  of  the  "  Deserted  Wife,"  is  a  magnificent  being,  while  Ray- 
mond,  Gusty,  and  Mr.  Withers,  are  not  merely  names,  but  existences — they  live  and  move 
before  us,  each  acting  in  accordance  with  his  peculiar  nature.  The  purpose  of  the  author, 
professedly,  is  to  teach  the  lexson,  "  that  the  fundamental  causes  of  unhappiness  in  a 
married  life,  are  a  defective  moral  and  physical  education,  and  a  premature  contraction 
of  the  matrimonial  engagement."  It  is  a  book  to  read  and  reflect  on,  and  one  that  can 
not  fail  to  do  an  immense  amount  of  good,  and  will  rauk  as  one  of  the  brightest  and 
purest  ornaments  among  the  literature  of  this  country. 

EEAD  THE  SUBJECT  MATTER  OF  THE  DIFFERENT  CHAPTERS. 


Marriage  and  Divorce. 

The  Old  Mansion  House. 

The  Aged  Pastor. 

The  Old  Man's  Darling. 

The  Evil  Eye. 

The  Philosopher. 

The  Young  Lieutenant. 

First  Love. 

Magnetism. 

The  Phantom's  Warning. 

The  Wanderer's  Death. 

Raymond. 

Fanaticism. 

Ilagar. 

Rosalia. 

The  Atti«. 


Gusty. 

The  Moor. 

The  Storm. 

The  Lunatic's  End. 

The  Hunt. 

La  Lionne  de  Chase. 

Hagar's  Bridal. 

The  Love  Angel. 

The  Bride's  Trial. 

The  Forsaken  House. 

The  New  Horn/?. 

The  Midshipman's  Love. 

The  Worship  of  Joy. 

The  Wife's  Rival. 

The  New  Medea. 

The  Bleeding  Heart. 


The  Baptism  of  Grief. 
Fascination. 
The  Forsaken. 
The  Fiery  Trial. 
Return  to  the  Desolate  Horn*. 
Ilagar  at  Heath  Hall. 
The  Flight  of  Rosalia. 
The  Worship  of  Sorrow. 
God  the  Consoler. 
Hagar's  Resurrection 
A  Revelation. 
Family  Secrets. 
Rosalia's  Wanderings. 
The  Queen  of  Song. 
Rappings  at  Heath  Hall. 
Hagar's  Ovation. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  also  publishes  a  complete  and  uniform  edition  of  Mrs.  Southworth's 

other  works,  any  one  or  all  of  which,  of  either  edition,  will  be  sent  to  any  place  in  the 

United  States,  free  of  postage,  on  receipt  of  remittances.  The  following  are  their  names. 

THE  LOST  HEIRESS.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  With  a  Portrait  and  Auto 
graph  of  the  author.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  MISSING  BRIDE ;  OR,  MIRIAM  THE  AVENGER.  By  Mrs.  Southworth.  Two 
volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1  25. 

THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY;  AND  NINE  OTHER  NOUVELLETTES.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D. 
E.  N.  Southworth.  It  is  embellished  with  a  view  of  Prospect  Cottage,  the  residence  of 
the  author.  Two  vols.,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

THE  CURSE  OP  CLIFTON.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  Complete  in  two 
Toiumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

THE  DISCARDED  DAUGHTER.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  Complete  in  tw« 
volumes.  Price  in  paper  cover,  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

Published  and  for  Sale  by  T.  B.  PETERSOIV, 

No.  102  Chestnut  Street.  Philadelphia. 

20 


THE  JLOSIJEIRESS, 

.      BY  MRSJEMIVI^D.  E.  N,  JOUTHWOHTH, 

Bead  the  Brief  Extracts  from  Lengthy  Opinions  given  by  the  Press. 

"  It  presents  some  of  the  most  noble  and  beautiful  models  of  virtue,  in  private  and  in 
public  life,  that  ever  came  to  us  through  a  similar  medium.  It  must  have  a  moral,  reli 
gious,  and  elevating  tendency." — Godey's  Lady's  Book. 

"  Its  pages  can  be  read,  and  re-read  with  renewed  pleasure.  The  characters  stand  mit 
in  bold  relief.  The  incidents  are  well  told,  and  the  interest  never  flags  for  a  moment.  It 
is  a  book  not  to  be  forgotten." — Evening  Bulletin. 

"Maud  Hunter,  the  heroine,  is  a  beautiful  creation,  whose  history  will  be  perused  with 
intense  interest,  and  moistened  eyes,  by  every  sympathetic  reader.  The  moral  tone  is  pure 
and  healthy,  breathing  the  spirit  of  true  religion." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  Its  chasteness  of  morals,  and  its  exalted  role  of  virtue  pervades  every  page.  We 
would  desire  it  to  become  a  parlor  table-book  in  every  family." — N.  Y.  Sunday  Times. 

"  It  will  sustain  the  already  enviable  reputation  of  the  author,  The  character  of  Maud 
is  as  near  perfection  as  anything  human  could  be.  A  deep  and  thrilling  interest  pervades 
the  whole  work."— N.  Y.  Spirit  of  the  Times. 

"  We  have  perused  it  with  care  and  an  unanticipated  pleasure.  The  auihor  displays  skill 
and  power.  The  plot  is  very  well  laid.  The  moral  is  good." — Boston  Congregationalist. 

"  This  work  is  written  with  much  ability.  We  have  perused  the  whole  of  it,  and  been 
greatly  edified.  It  is  far  superior  to,  and  more  brilliant  than  the  Lamplighter.' " — Daily 
Orleanian,  N.  0. 

"  It  is  a  beautifully  written,  and  absorbingly  interesting  work,  which  no  one  can  com 
mence  without  following  it  eagerly  to  the  conclusion." — Reading  Gazette  and  Democrat. 

"  It  shows  great  ability,  a  vivid  imagination,  and  descriptive  powers  of  a  very  high  order, 
It  will  be  read  with  avidity." — Saturday  Evening  Mail. 

"-  The  characters  are  all  drawn  to  the  life.  Those  who  are  fond  of  a  good  book  should 
read  it." — Union,  Harrislmrg,  Pa. 

"  She  is  a  writer  of  genius  and  originality,  and  has  no  superior  in  depicting  character 
and  scenery." — Buffalo  Courier. 

"  Great  power  and  originality — graphic,  brilliant  and  moral.  She  has  hosts  of  admirers." 
— -  Wheeling  Intelligencer. 

"  We  always  read  her  creations  with  great  pleasure.  It  is  a  charming  work." — Boston 
Sunday  News. 

"It  will  be  read  with  much  interest.  She  is  a  pleasant  writer,  and  has  a  high  reputa 
tion.'-' — Boston  Traveler. 

"  It  possesses  great  fertility  of  genius,  and  incidents  of  deep  pathos." — Nat.  Intelligencer. 

"  The  plot  is  well  wrought,  and  possesses  an  interest  that  is  preserved  to  the  last  page 
of  the  book." — Sunday  Mercury. 

"  It  is  her  lap t  and  best  work,  and  she  has  composed  it  with  more  than  usual  care." — 
Sunday  Dispatch. 

"  The  story  is  intensely  interesting.  The  authoress  has  an  established  reputation." — 
Richmond  Dispatch. 

"  She  is  a  writer  of  remarkable  genius  and  originality." — N.  Y.  Sunday  Mercury. 

"  It  is  a  most  entertaining  volume.    The  writer  is  winning  great  popularity." — Bait,.  tsuti.. 

"  The  Lost  Heiress  is  a  novel  of  great  interest.  The  characters  are  well  depicted,  and 
exhibited  in  colors  as  vivid  as  they  are  beautiful,  aud  are  invested  with  a  charm  which 
the  reader  will  linger  over  in  memory,  long  aftei  he  shall  have  closed  the  book." — New 
ark  Daily  Eagle. 

Price  for  the  complete  work,  in  two  volumes  of  over  500  pages,  in  paper  cover,  One  Dollar 
only;  or  another  edition,  handsomely  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  gilt,  is  published  for 
One  Dollar  and  Twenty-Five  Cents. 

Copies  of  the  above  work  will  be  sent  to  any  person,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States, 
free  of  postage,  on  their  remitting  the  price  of  the  edition  they  may  wish,  to  the  publisher, 
in  a  letter,  post-pard. 

Published  and  for  sale  by  T.    B.    PETERSON, 

No.  103  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia. 
21 


THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY; 

AND  NINE  OTHER  NOUVELLETTES. 

BY  MRS.  EMMA  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH. 

Being  the  Most  Splendid  Pictures  of  American  Life  Ever  Written, 

Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper   cover,  Price  One   Dollar, 
or  bound  in  one  -volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

T.  B.  PETERSON  has  just  published  this  new  and  celebrated  work  by 
Mrs.  Southworth.  The  volume  contains,  besides  "THE  WIFE'S  VIC 
TORY,"  NINE  OF  THE  MOST  CELEBRATED  NOUVELLETTES  ever  Written  by 

this  favorite  and  world-renowned  American  author,  and  it  will  prove  to  be 
one  of  the  most  popular  works  ever  issued.  The  names  of  the  Nouvel- 
lettes  contained  in  "  The  Wife's  Victory,"  are  as  follows: 


THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY. 
THE   MARRIED  SHREW  ;   a 

Sequel  to  the  Wife's  Victory. 
SYBIL,     BROTHERTON  ;     or, 

The  Temptation. 
THE  IRISH  REFUGEE. 
EVEJL.INE  MURRAY;  or,  The 

Fine  Figure. 
WINNY. 


THE  THREE  SISTERS;  or, 
New  Year's  in  the  Little 
Rough  Cast  House. 

ANNIE  GREY;  or,  Neighbor's 
Prescriptions. 

ACROSS  THE  STREET*  a 
New  Year's  Story. 

THUNDERBOLT  TO  THE 
HEARTH. 

THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY  will  be  found,  on  perusal  by  all,  to  be  equal,  if  not 
superior,  to  any  of  the  previous  works  by  this  celebrated  American  author 
ess,  who  is  now  conceded  by  all  critics  to  be  the  best  female  writer  now  liv 
ing,  and  her  works  to  be  the  greatest  novels  in  the  English  language,  as 
well  as  the  most  splendid  pictures  of  American  life  ever  wriuon.  Either 
one  of  the  ten  nouvellettes  contained  in  this  volume,  is  of  itself  fully  worth 
the  price  of  the  whole  book.  The  Philadelphia  Daily  Sun  says,  in  its  edi 
torial  columns,  that  it  shows  all  the  grac%  vigor,  and  absorbing  interest  of 
her  previous  works,  and  places  Mrs.  Southworth  in  the  front  rank  of  living 
novelists  ;  and  that  indescribable  charm  pervades  all  her  works,  which  can 
only  emanate  from  a  female  mind.  Though  America  has  produced  many 
examples  of  high  intellect  in  her  sex,  none  are  destined  to  a  higher  range 
in  the  annals  of  fame,  or  more  enduring  popularity.  It  is  embellished  with  a 
beautifully  engraved  vignette  title  page,  executed  on  steel,  in  the  finest  style 
of  the  art,  as  well  as  a  view  of  Brothorton  Hall,  illustrative  of  one  of  the 
most  interesting  places  and  scenes  in  the  work. 

"  Mrs.  Southworth  is  the  finest  authoress  in  the  country.  Her  style  is 
forcible  and  bold.  There  is  an  exciting  interest  throughout  all  her  compo 
sitions,  which  renders  them  the  most  popular  novels  in  the  English 
language." — New  York  Mirror. 

"  Her  pictures  of  life  are  vivid  and  truthful." — Sunday  Times. 

"She  is  a  woman  of  brilliant  genius." — Olive  Branch. 

"  She  is  the  best  fiction  writer  in  the  country." — Buffalo  Express. 

Copies  of  the  above  work  will  be  sent  to  any  person  at  all,  to  any  part  of 
th-d  United  States,  free  of  postage,  oo  their  remitting  the  price  of  the  edition 
they  may  wish,  to  the  publisher,  in  a  letter,  post-paid. 

Published  and  for  sale  by  T.  B.  PETERSON, 

No.  1O2  Chestnut  St.,  Philadelphia. 

22 


KATE   AYLESFORD, 

BY  CHAELES  J.  PETERSON. 


Complete  in  one  large  volume,  neatly  bound  in  cloth,  for  One  Dollar 

and  Twenty-Five  Cents ;  or  another  edition,  in  two 

volumes,  paper  cover,  for  One  Dollar. 


OPINIONS   OF   THE   PRESS. 

"One  of  the  great  beauties  of  the  story  is,  the  characters  are  never  unnatural  nor  the 
incidents  improbable.  Yet  we  know  no  American  novelist  who  has  a  stronger  power  of 
holding  his  reader  enchained  by  the  stirring  and  life-like  incidents  of  the  narrative,  or 
who  can  individualize  his  characters  more  distinctly.  The  latter  are  real  persons,  acting 
naturally  and  properly.  Every  scene  is  painted  vividly  and  graphically,  and  the  reader 
seems  moving  among  living  persons  and  a  spectator  of  scenes  of  actual  occurrence.  It  13 
on  all  hands  pronounced  the  ablest  original  novel  published  for  many  years,  and  justly 
places  its  author  at  the  very  head  of  the  popular  romance  writers  of  the  day  in  this  country. 
This  is  saying  a  good  deal,  but  we  think  the  public,  on  the  perusal  of  the  story,  will  agree 
with  us  that  our  commendation  is  not  exaggerated." — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"The  heroine  is  one  of  those  rare  characters,  sometimes  met  within  the  practical  world, 
who  combine  all  the  womanly  virtues,  to  be  found  in  the  highest  degrees  of  life,  with  that 
moral  courage  and  bravery  so  often  brought  forth  in  the  trying  times  which  preceded  the 
independence  of  the  country.  The  '  Uncle  Lawrence'  of  the  author  is  a  most  charming 
specimen  of  the  yeomanry  of  the  olden  time.  '  Kate  Aylesford'  is  a  book  well  worthy  to 
be  read  by  all  lovers  of  light  reading.  With  the  ladies  it  must  become  very  popular." — 
Pliiladelpliia  Daily  News. 

"This  is  one  of  the  very  few  historical  romances  of  the  age  which  lay  claim  to  success. 
The  story  has  been  carefully  planned,  and  in  like  manner  developed.  The  style  is  simple, 
unstrained,  natural  and  pleasing.  Mr.  Peterson  deserves  all  praise  for  his  manly  contempt 
of  the  transcendentalisms  and  milk-and-waterisms  of  the  time,  and  for  his  daring  to  be  so 
natural." — Hunterdon  (N.  J.)  Gazette. 

"  This  work  is  the  best  historical  novel  ever  written  in  this  country." — Christian  Observer. 

"  In  literary  merit  generally,  but  especially  in  elegant  use  of  language,  and  delineation 
of  female  character,  it  exceeds  either  the  Spy,  Water  Witch,  or  any  of  the  Leather  Stock 
ing  Stories."— Philadelphia  Sun. 

"  Sure  of  an  enduring  popularity." — Baltimore  Sun. 

"Mr.  Peterson  is  fast  gaining  on  the  laurels  of  Irving." — New  York  Dutchman. 

"  Kate  Aylesford  is  worth  a  hecatomb  of  Ruth  Halls." — Baltimore  Argus. 

"  The  scenes  are  portrayed  in  a  powerful  manner,  and  the  whole  storj  invested  with 
thrilling  interest." — Baltimore  Dispatch. 

"  Abounding  with  adventures  of  the  most  exciting  character." — Boston  Times. 

"  The  heroine  is  a  trump  of  a  girl." — Boston  Post. 

"  The  most  interesting  and  elegantly  written  novel  of  the  day." — Jersey  Blue. 

"  A  story  of  thrilling  interest." — Pittsburg  Commercial. 

"  Those  who  read  it  can  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  while  they  are  deeply 
interested,  the  attraction  is  not  only  harmless  but  healthy." — Gospel  Banner. 

"  Free  from  the  sickly  sentimentalism  so  common  to  works  of  this  kind."— True  American. 

"  A  work  of  genuine  value." — Lincoln  Democrat. 

"  If  you  wish  to  read  a  thrilling  story,  absorbingly  interesting,  and  at  the  same  time  in 
no  degree  overstrained  or  unnatural,  get  Kate  Aylesford.  It  reminds  us  of  the  best  of 
Cooper's  novels,  and  it  is  free  from  faults  which  they  abound  in." — Piedmont  (Fa.)  Whig. 

*rice  for  the  complete  work,  in  two  volumes  in  paper  cover,  One  Dollar  only;  or  another 
edition,  handsomely  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  gilt,  is  published  for  One  Dollar  and 
Twenty-Five  Cents. 

Copies  of  either  edition  of  the  work  will  be  sent  to  any  person,  to  any  part  of  the  United 
States,  free  of  postage,  on  their  remitting  the  price  of  the  edition  they  may  wish,  to  the 
publisher,  in  a  letter,  post-paid. 

Published  and  for  sale  by  T.    B.    PETERSON, 

BTo.  102  CUestnut  Street,  Philadelphia, 
23 


A  NEW  COOK  BOOK,  BYMISSJLESLI^FOR  THE  MILLION 
MISS^LTsTTE'S 

"MEW  REramoa  GOOKING.M 


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lection  are  of  French  origin  Their  Htio. ?J ™  *'  ^,ome,v.ery  fine  receipts  in  this  col- 
"  The  corn  meal  preparatior  s  will  be  fm,  T  tran,slatt!d  lnt°  our  own  language  *  *  * 
*  for  every  method  in  wh "h  th  '  mJi  I  111n,"sua^  ?ood'  as  full  directions  are  given 


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«  country  women,  all  of  which  I  have  b?-e       *£iZ??*      ?  domestic  improvement  of  my 


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RlTM,  and  to  rarefuHj  tVl  ami  ha?o  t  "m  nm  ?  Vi"  ""I1!'  '"  ""'y  P™™M  lW 
"in  this  'NKW  RliOMl'T'S  FOR  ron  ;!"r  y  '"  '  °"d  have  "ow  «'"">  thtm  .11 
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KECEIPTS 


BTo.  103  Chestnut  Street, 


THE    INITIALS: 

A  STORY  OF  MODERN  LIFE.  £ 

Complete  in  two  vols.,   paper   cover,  Price  On7~Dollar  •  or 

bound  in  one  vol.,  cloth.    Price  One  Dollar  and 

Twenty-Five   Cents  a  copy. 

T.  B.  PETERSON,  NO.  102  CHESTNUT  STREET,  PHILADELPHIA, 
has  just  published  this  celebrated  and  world-renowned  work.  It  will  be 
found  on  perusal  to  be  one  of  the  best,  as  it  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
works  ever  published  in  the  English  language,  and  will  live,  and  con 
tinue  to  be  read  for  generations  to  come,  and  rank  by  the  side  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  celebrated  novels. 

READ  THE  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


in. 
v. 


V. 
VI. 


CHAPTER 

i.  The  Letter. 
ii.  The  Initials. 
A.  Z. 

A  Walk  of  no  common  De 
scription. 
An  Alp. 

Secularized  Cloisters. 
Vii.  An  Excursion,  and  Return  to 
the  Secularized  Cloisters. 
Vin.  An  Alpine  Party, 
ix.  Salzburg. 
x.  The  Return  to  Munich. 
xi.  The  Betrothal, 
xii.  Domestic  Details. 
xin.  A  Truce. 

xiv.  A  New  Way  to  Learn  G  erman. 
xv.  The  October  Fete.    A  Lesson 
on  Propriety  of  Conduct. 
xvi.  The  Au  Fair.     The  Supper. 
xvn.  Lovers'  Quarrels, 
xvni.   The  Churchyard, 
xix.  German  Soup. 
xx.  The  Warning. 
xxi.  The  Struggle. 
xxn.  The  Departure, 
xxin.  The  Long  Day. 
xxiv.  The    Christmas 


CHAI'TEE 

xxv.  The  Garret, 
xxvi.  The  Discussion. 
xxvii.  The  Sledge. 
xxvni.  A  Ball  at  the  Museum  Club, 
xxix.  A  Day  of  Freedom. 
xxx.  The  Masquerade. 
xxxi.  Where  is  the  Bridegroom  ? 
xxxii.  The  Wedding  at  Troisieme. 
xxxin.  A  Change, 
xxxiv.  The  Arrangement, 
xxxv.  The  Difficulty  Removed, 
xxxvi.  The  Iron  Works, 
xxxvn.  An   Unexpected   Meeting 
and  its  Consequences. 
xxxvui.  The  Experiment, 
xxxix.  The  Recall. 
XL.  Hohenfels. 

XLI.  The     Scheiben-Schiesseu, 
(Target  Shooting-  Match.) 
XLII.  A  Discourse. 
XLIII.  Another  kind  of  Discoui-se. 
XLIV.  The  Journey  Home  Com 
mences. 

XLV.  What  occurred  at  the  Hotel 
D'Angle-terre  in  Frank 
fort. 

XLVI.  Halt! 
XLVII.  Conclusion. 


Tree,    and 
Midnight  Mass. 

Copies  of  either  edition  of  the  work  will  be  sent  to  any  person,  to  any 
part  of  the  United  States,  free  of  postage,  on  their  remitting  the  price  of 
the  edition  they  may  wish,  to  the  publisher,  in  a  letter. 

Published  and  for  sale  by  T.  B.  PETERSON", 

No.  1O£  Chestnut  St.,  Philadelphia. 
To  whom  all  Orders  should  be  addressed,  post-paid. 


OR, 


ON    AND    OFF    SOUNDINGS, 


A   NEW   AND   EXaUISITELY   ORIGINAL   WORK. 

Have  you  read  it?    If  not,  then  do  so. 
Price  Fifty  Cents  in  Paper  ;  or  Seventy  Five  Cents  in  Cloth. 

Wild  Oats  Sown  Abroad  is  a  splendid  work.  It  is  the  Private  Journal 
of  a  Gentleman  of  Leisure  and  Education,  and  of  a  highly  cultivated  mind, 
in  making  the  Tour  of  Europe.  It  is  having  a  sale  unprecedented  in  the 
annals  of  literature,  for  nothing  equal  to  it  in  spiciness,  vivacity,  and  real 
scenes  and  observations  in  daily  travel,  has  ever  appeared  from  the  press. 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  OF  THIS  EXTRAORDINARY  WORK. 


Opening  the  Journal.  A  View  in  Lyons. 

Adventure  in  search  of  Ruin.  Avignon  —  Petrarch    and 

Parting  Tribute  to  Love.  Laura. 

Three  Desperate  Days!  Our  First  Ruin. 

The   Poetry  of  Sea-Sickness.  The  Unconscious  Blessing. 

The  Red  Flannel  Night-Cap.  A  Crash  and  a  Wreck. 

A  Ship  by  Moonlight.  The  Hailroad  of  Life. 

Arrival  in  London.  A  Night  Adventure. 

The  Parks  of  Loudon.  "  The  Gods    take    care    of 

Poet's  Corner,  Westminster      Cato." 

Abbey.  The  Triumphs  of  Neptune. 

England's  Monuments.  The  Marquisi's  Foot. 

Madame    Tussaud's     Wax    Beauties  of  Naples  Hay. 


Abelard  and  Heloise. 
Scenes  on  the  Road. 
The  "  Tug  of  War." 
"  There  they  are,  by  Jove !" 
The  Raven-Haired  One  1 
Heaven  and  Hell  J 
The  l<  Hamlet"  of  Sculpture. 
The  Modern  Susannah. 
Hey,  Presto !  Change ! 
The   Death  Scene    of   Cleo 
patra. 

An  Eulogy  on  Tuscany. 
A  Real  Claude  Sunset. 


Works. 


The  "  Beauties"  of   Hamp-      zaroni. 

ton  Court.  The  True  Venus. 

Love  and  Philosophy.  Love  and  Devotion. 

"  Love's  Labor  Lost." 
A  Peep  at  "The  Shades." 
The  Modern  "  Aspasia." 
Nob'e  Plea  for  Matrimony. 
The  Lily  on  the  Shore 


Natural  History  of  the  Laz-  Tasso  and  Byron. 


The  Mortality  of  Pompeii. 
Procession  of  the  Host. 
The  Ascent  of  Vesuvius. 
The  Mountain  Emetic. 
The  Human  Projectile. 


English  Mother  and  Ameri-  The  City  of  the  Soul. 


can  Daughter. 
The  "  Maid  of  Normandie. 
An  Effecting  Scene. 
"  Paris  est  un  Artist." 
The  Guillotine. 
"Give  us  Another!" 
Post  Mortem  Reflections. 
Fashionable  Criticism. 


The  Shocking  Team ! 
Floatings  in  Venice. 
The  Venetian  Girls. 
The  Bell-Crowned  Hat! 
The  "  Lion's  Mouth." 
The  "  Bridge  of  Sigh?  !" 
A  Subterranean  Fete ! 
Byron  and  Moore  in  Venice. 
Diana  arid  Endymion. 
The  Pinch  of  Snuff. 
The  Bock-Crystal  Coffin! 
Eccentricity  of  Art. 
Thoughts  in  a  Monastery. 
The  Lake  of  Coino. 
Immortal    Drummer  Boy. 
Wit,  and  its  Reward ! 
The  Cold  Bath. 
"  Here  we  are !" 
The  Mountain  Expose. 
The    "Last    Rose  of  Sum 
mer." 


The  Coup  de  Main. 

Night  in  the  Coliseum  I 

Catholicity  Considered. 

Power  Passing  Away ! 

Byron  Among  the  Ruins. 

A  Gossip  with  the  Artists. 

Speaking  Gems. 

"  Weep  for  Adonis !» 

Whiskey  Punch  and  Logic.    The  Lady  and  the  God. 
"  Shylock  asks  for  Justice  1"  The  Science  of  Psalmistry. 
"Lorette"  and  -'Grisette."      "  Sour  Grapes." 
Kissing  Day.  A  Ramble  about  Tivoli. 

The  Tattoo.  Illumination  of  St.  Peter's.  Waking  the  Echoes. 

The  Masked  Ball.  The  '•  Niobe  of  Nations."         Watching  the  Avalanche. 

The  Incognita.  A  Ghostly  Scene!  A  Beautiful  Incident. 

The  Charms  of  Paris.  "  Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense."  A  Shot  with  the  Long  Bow. 

Changing  Horses.  A  "  BalF  without  Music.        Mt.  Blanc  and  a  full  stop. 

Price  for  the  complete  work,  in  paper  cover,  Fifty  cents  a  copy  only;  or 
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Copies  of  either  edition  of  the  work  will  be  sent  to  any  person  at  all,  to 
any  part  of  the  United  States,  free  of.  postage,  on  their  remitting  the  price 
of  the  edition  they  wish,  to  the  publisher,  in  a  letter,  post  paid. 

Published  and  for  Sale  by  T.      B.      PETERSON, 

ATo*  102  Chestnut  Street, 
26 


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J^Cl^JMJlf  ILSJTcLUBsT'"" 

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Which  is  proportionately  more  than  any  periodical,  of  any  price,  ever  yet  gave  ° 

ITS    THRILLIJTG    ORIGIJT^L    STORIES 

Are  pronounced,  by  the  press,  the  best  published  anywhere.  The  editors  are  Mrs.  Ann  S. 
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ITS  COLORED  FASHION  PLATES  IN  ADVANCE. 

It  is  the  only  Magazine  wliose  Fashion  Plates  can  be  relied  on. 
Each  Number  contains  a  Fashion  Plate,  engraved  on  Steel,  colored  a  la  mode  and  of 
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In  the  greatest  profusion   are  giv-n  in  every  number,  with  instructions  how  to  work 
them;  also   L'attcrns  in  Embroidery,  Inserting.  Broiderie  Anglaise,  Netting.  Lace-rnalTin. 

emisettes  ;  Patterns  in  ifead-work, 


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L','™6^      *L C'°rne58;  Barnes  for  Marking  and  Initials.     Eacb  num- 
to  n 
OM 


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Country,  we  will  describe  it :  It  is  the  largest,  most  spacious,  and  best  arranged  Retail 
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T.  B.  PETERSON  will  be  most  happy  to  supply  all  orders  for  any  books  at  all.  no 
matter  by  whom  published,  in  advance  of  all  others,  and  at  publishers'  lowest  cash 
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Agents,  the  Trade,  Strangers  in  the  city,  and  the  public  generally,  to  call  and  examine 
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32 


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Caroline 

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